The Graveyard Secretary Affair
by Lihau
Summary: Napoleon investigates the joys of living with a closet pyro. Illya makes a solid effort at comprehending human emotion. Everyone manages to not die, mostly. Except the OCs, but they don't count, right? Modern AU. Sequel to "The Up is Down Affair" and, as such, is slash.
1. Act I: Novelette in fourths

**A/N:** As mentioned in the description, this story is the sequel to my other MFU fic, "The Up is Down Affair" and, unfortunately, it would be very helpful for you to read that one before you start on this one. Maybe you could slog through this without it, but there are lots of references to things that happened in TUIDA so… whoopsy-doodle.

This story is a bit heavier on the OCs than TUIDA, as I needed them for the plotline. Aside from a blip at the beginning, I try to keep the proverbial camera primarily on Napoleon and Illya. The TV series tended to have new characters in almost every episode anyway, so hopefully this is okay.

Also, this story is a bit heavy in terms of subject matter at some points. I'll give specific content warnings at the start of each chapter. Maybe I'll over-warn a bit, but better safe than sorry, right? :)

Chapter one **warnings** : Acid burns; deaths (OCs only); mental illness (mostly depression).

* * *

 **Act I** : Novelette in fourths/Talk about you

 _Four years ago_

He had no business being here. Not really. Aside from the little detail that he was authorized and had been ordered to be here, of course. An agent did as they were told, even if they thought it was kind of a dumb idea.

And that was another thing: in the labs at U.N.C.L.E., one was seldom "Agent This" or "Agent That". A lot of the folks held doctoral degrees, so they tended to favor having "Dr." or, if they'd started out in academia, "Professor" in front of their names. Others in the labs may not have had the same scholastic credentials, but they often considered themselves scientists before agents, so they used variations on their specific department or job label so as to differentiate themselves from the Enforcement agents.

He could relate to that. Chemical and Mechanical Engineering. CME.

CME Ogola.

Well, usually CME Ogola.

Now it was Agent Ogola.

And in either case, CME/Agent Ogola felt he had spectacularly proven that he had no business being here.

Rather, he would later feel that he had spectacularly proven his point, and even then he would have the good sense to keep to himself whatever feeble bit of self-righteousness he managed to work up.

Because "here" was on the property of a T.H.R.U.S.H. facility suspected of producing chemical weapons.

Here was where Section II, Number 2 had just been shot dead.

Here was where a rookie agent had just been shot and doused with sulfuric acid.

Here was where Agent Ogola had received a not inconsiderable proportion of the backsplash from the acid spilled on the rookie agent, and where Agent Ogola was hiding in the woods behind the facility, biting his thumb to keep from screaming until backup could arrive and do _something_ to fix this terrible mess.

Here would soon be the former site of T.H.R.U.S.H. sympathizer Andrew Park's dream project—a one-stop shop of a factory for chemicals both beneficent and maleficent—the Aristophanes Corporation.

* * *

 _Three years ago_

He really hated this suit. To be fair, he just hated suits in general, but this particular iteration of the garment was especially unlikeable.

Strike one: it was a flattering cut. Illya wasn't one to toot his own horn, but he was a good-looking kid and he knew it. Both the "good-looking" and the "kid" part. Being a good-looking literal child of fifteen at a university crawling with adults, the prodigy preferred to swath himself in discreet (mostly black) garments with a looser fit. Not that he felt morally obligated to "not tempt" anyone, but he figured there wasn't any harm in attempting to render himself as invisible as someone with bright blond hair and blue eyes could be rendered.

And that led to strike two: it was not black. And maybe Illya didn't stick to mostly-black clothes just because he was trying to be less noticeable. Maybe he also just did not like colors, and maybe that was because he was affected by blue-yellow color blindness, and as a terrifically distrustful tritanope he certainly did not trust people enough to describe colors and their connotations to him.

And that was strike three: he had not chosen it. His mother had, and his mother thought that well-fitting clothes would make him look more professional, and his mother had told him that the suit was dark blue. Then one of his classmates had mentioned that the suit was a lovely powder blue, so he wasn't sure whether his classmate was putting him on or if Mama had thought he'd look cute in a lighter color and had only said _deep blue_ to talk him into wearing the damn thing, seeing as he personally perceived very little difference between dark and light shades of that color.

The problem could easily have been remedied by his going out and using a bit of his stipend to spring for a cheap black suit (Mama was back in Russia after that ill-fated shopping trip in London and wouldn't be any the wiser), but he kept getting distracted by schoolwork at Oxford and now he was in South Korea for a conference and not quite up to navigating himself to a clothing store. He'd tried to pick up enough Korean to scrape by in emergency situation ( _Where are the police? Where is the hospital? May I have some water? Is there a toilet?_ ), but that did not extend to preparing himself for a shopping expedition, and he wasn't about to hassle the professor he was accompanying with such trifles.

Not that Professor Choi would have minded. She seemed to alternate easily between treating Illya as a colleague (they'd already had a paper published together) and as a pseudo-son (they'd arrived in Seoul a day early to ensure they would get to the conference without having to hurry, and Choi had elected to spend that extra day showing Illya some of the sights).

Now they were in Colleague mode, walking from their hotel to another hotel—a much fancier establishment where the conference was being hosted.

Professor Choi glanced across the street, attention apparently caught by the bookstore there. She turned back to her pupil and said, "That is the hotel, with the trees in front," with a gesture to the appropriate building. "Will you be okay waiting there? I have a purchase I must make."

Illya nodded. "I will wait." The Russian headed over and stood beneath one of the trees. Soon, he noticed a Korean man in an American-style varsity jacket seated on a bench near the hotel entrance staring at him. He tried to ignore the intense look, feeling it best not to engage with strangers, especially in a country whose language he was only minimally familiar with.

Eventually it became too much to resist so, determined to put an end to the open ogling, he raised his eyebrows in a challenging gesture at the man. The challenge was, it seems, interpreted as an invitation, seeing as the man smiled, stood, and walked over. Illya moved his hands from inside his pockets to being folded before himself, in case he needed to have them ready for self-defense.

The man leaned in and inhaled the hotel-shampoo-scent of the blond hair ( _I wish I learned "creepy" in Korean…_ ), then leaned back out again as Illya tensed, lowered his head, and cast his gaze warily up. A grin from the forty-something stranger. "Yeppeo."

The fifteen-year-old cycled quickly through some phrases, matching the spoken word to its translation.

 _Pretty_ , the man had said.

Illya remembered the word, as several people (mostly elderly ladies) had come up to him and Professor Choi during their sightseeing expedition and (according to Choi) commented on how pretty the foreigner's hair and eyes were. Where the compliment had been sweet (if not a smidgen embarrassing) from the old ladies, it somehow sounded different coming from a middle-aged man with what smelled to be an alcohol-induced flush.

As his attempted glare had been grievously unsuccessful, Illya switched from hostility to rigid politeness. Given the aroma of liquor, it would probably be better to avoid antagonizing the man, anyway. He thanked the stranger in his iciest tone, using the most formal expression of gratitude he could recall ( _"Kamsamnida."_ ) as well as speaking in a slightly different register than normal, as he had heard that it was polite for younger people to address their elders in a higher pitch.

This tactic did not produce immediate results, unless one counted the widening smile on the man's face, but that wasn't the result Kuryakin had been hoping for, so he didn't count it. "Roshia saram?"

Illya betrayed no sign of having been surprised that the man knew he was Russian. Instead, he confirmed his nationality with a deliberately stilted, "Ne, Roshia saram-ibnida."

The man reached over to take his arm and Illya sidestepped away. He didn't know how to say _kindly fuck off, my good man_ in Korean, so he went with an expression of denial: "An-ibnida," which, as far as he could remember, meant something along the lines of "it is not," and was hopefully enough to get some kind of _get the hell away from me_ message through.

It wasn't.

As the man pursued him in a small, slow, halting circuit around the tree, he added an apology, even though it was really this somewhat sozzled stranger who ought to have been doing the apologizing. He briefly considered doing away with the dilemma entirely by punching the man out or yelling for a police officer, but elected not to: he'd recently had a close brush with The Law for having hacked into corporate documents, and had accordingly resolved to keep a low profile for the time being.

And thus, Illya kept up his mantra ("An-ibnida, chwesonghabnida, an-ibnida, chwesonghabnida…") until Professor Choi came into view, at which point he called sharply, "Professor!"

The computer scientist, who'd been focused on the sidewalk, looked up. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open almost comically as she observed her hapless student's situation, then she gathered her features into a deep frown and called to the man, "Ya!"

The man immediately stopped and, as Choi approached and placed herself between the teen and his pursuer, they spoke too quickly and too quietly for Illya to follow any part of their exchange. Eventually, the stranger inhaled a breath through his teeth and turned to the blond, blurting, "Chweso—"

Choi cut off the man with, "Ka!" and, when the man started babbling again, repeated loudly and with a hand motion that managed to be surprisingly threatening for a bespectacled sixty-year-old lady on the shady side of five feet, "Ka-a-a!"

At last, just as other people were starting to stare, the man gave several bows in rapid succession and backed off, turning around to all but run away, the Aristophanes Corporation logo on the back of his jacket fluttering behind as he hurried off.

The professor wiped a hand down her face. "Ah—Illya, I should know better than to have left you here. I am deeply sorry." Her bow was in direct proportion to the degree of her regret. She never bowed in England, so the Russian could only assume that being back in her home country had revived the old habit. "Did he touch you?" Choi inquired once she rose again, glancing over her charge anxiously.

"No, I was too fast for him," Illya answered, deigning to add a reassuring smile in consideration of the professor's perturbation. "I must admit, however, that I am confused."

Choi's face, still blotchy from her former anger, turned a more uniform red. "Ah. You… are young and have blond hair, so he asked if you are Russian. You are, of course, so you said as much." She cleared her throat. "The, uh, misunderstanding was that… 'Russian' is a euphemism in Korea for—uh… call-girl—well, call-boy in your case, I suppose—although he may have thought you were a girl…."

Illya tilted his head. "Call-boy?"

Choi winced as she said more bluntly, "Prostitute."

Illya frowned. Now he had to mentally flip through his English vocabulary cards, but apparently not quickly enough for Choi, who stepped closer and lowered her voice a bit to further clarify, "A person who is paid to have sex."

The non-euphemistically Russian teen blinked rapidly. "Oh," he eventually managed, and Choi bowed again in apology for not having had the foresight to prevent this situation. Illya cleared his throat and regained a stronger voice as he asked, "Was this incident sexual harassment, then?" He had, of course, heard of the act and made conscious efforts to avoid it, but he wasn't entirely clear on what the first part entailed. The second part (the "harassment" bit) provided enough of a negative connotation that it was obviously a bad thing.

Choi furrowed her brow. "Yes, I—perhaps I should not have let him go. Do you want me to contact the police?"

Illya shook his head absently and picked at his light-or-dark-blue trouser leg. "Was it the suit, you think?" he mused. The degree of emphasis coloring the professor's reply drew his attention immediately.

" _No_. It was a man making an ass of himself. Clothing has nothing to do with it, Illya. Wear whatever you want."

Illya blinked, getting the distinct impression that there was some nuance underlying Choi's message that he wasn't appreciating. As far as he was concerned, however, they'd dwelled on this incident long enough, so he asked, "Did you make the purchase you required?"

"Ah, yes!" Choi pulled a book halfway out of the shopping bag in her left hand. "It is the book in which you had a chapter published." She replaced the object and extended the bag toward her student with both hands. "I thought you might like to have a copy in Korean."

Illya accepted with both hands and a 'kamsamnida' and asked, "How much?"

"No, Illya, it is a gift." Grimace. "It would have been a gift nonetheless, but you certainly deserve something nice after what happened now."

"Ah. If I am not 'pushing it' in terms of getting something nice, would you also be so kind as to grace me with your opinion as to what this color should be called?" He pinched a bit of his trouser leg between a couple of fingers to illustrate which color he was referring to.

Choi frowned, partly at the unusual question and partly in thought as to what to dub the shade of the suit. "E1EBEE?" She took a second to translate the hexadecimal into a more elucidating name for her colorblind student. "Marian blue. It is quite a light shade, quite pale, not at all obtrusive."

 _Dammit, Mama._ "Thank you."

* * *

 _Two years ago_

Napoleon quickly assembled the communicator. "Solo here."

 _"Hey, bebop, welcome back to the east coast."_

Napoleon side-eyed the device. Since the owner of the raspy voice that had offered the welcome obviously could not appreciate that gesture, he added, "Thank you, mysterious stranger."

 _"I'm Gerry. Secretary, third shift. Thought I'd give you a buzz and introduce myself, since you'll be stuck with me if you use Channel S to contact HQ between one and eight a.m., Eastern Standard Time."_

Solo chuckled. Channel S had been set aside for the trainees, and one of the senior agents had commented (only a tad bitterly) that some of the better secretaries had been set aside for Channel S, to ensure the noobs could get the assistance they needed. Napoleon wasn't entirely sure what they were supposed to be better at, but this one certainly had a better voice than the lady who'd answered the phone sex line he'd accidentally ( _No, really, Mom, I swear!_ ) called once.

"I'd hardly call you someone to be stuck with, friend."

 _"Ooh, friends already, are we? Be still, my beating heart."_

"Worked for our uncle very long, Ger?"

 _"Long enough that they trust me to the care and keeping of rookie agents, Nap. So don't go getting yourself decapitated over the graveyard shift, okay, or I'll have to file a report on my last interactions with ya. I've got enough paperwork as it is."_

"I'll save all decapitations for 8:01, my dear."

 _"EST, love?"_

"8:01 a.m., EST, sweetheart."

 _"You're a peach."_

* * *

 _Early December_

"Kuryakin, correct?"

Illya looked up from the orientation manual he was leafing through. "Yes."

"Anton Bai. I have been appointed as the new Chief Enforcement Agent. As you have joined the organization as a future Enforcement agent, I will be overseeing part of your training. Would you mind coming to my office for a bit?"

"Not at all, Mr. Bai."

Illya rose to his feet and they proceeded to Bai's office, moving rather slowly to accommodate Kuryakin's recent knee injury. After a few moments of slow, quiet walking, Bai offered, "You are Russian, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"How are you liking New York?"

"It is not appreciably worse than other places I have lived." Making a guess based on the senior agent's overly careful enunciation, Illya asked, "Where are you from, Mr. Bai?"

"Taiwan, by way of Canada."

"And how are you liking New York?"

"I dislike driving and like edutainment, so a city with a good subway system and a lot of museums has been very enjoyable."

"There are other cities with similar features."

"Yes. I am not based in them, however." Bai opened the door with his name on it and gestured for Illya to limp on in first. Once they were both seated, the CEA got to the point.

The point was illustrated by a few visual aids, as the team that had gathered belongings from certain people's dorm rooms had recovered evidence of certain people's oft-used items (i.e. explosive materials) and unused items (i.e. anti-anxiety medication and antidepressants). Bai was pleased by some of the discoveries ("It never hurts to have a working knowledge of explosives. Do try to obtain your materials legally, though. NYPD gets touchy about that sort of thing.") and displeased by others ("We take agents' mental health very seriously. Psychiatric evaluation is standard procedure, and we expect you to undergo evaluation and develop a workable treatment plan if necessary.").

"Before I let you go, there is one more thing. Mr. Solo has disclosed that you two are dating." Reading the sudden stiffness in the Russian's posture, he continued quickly. "I have no issue with that, Mr. Kuryakin, and it is not a matter of public record. For your privacy, it has been removed from the recent mission report and placed in your personnel file, which has more restricted access.

"What I wanted to say—although I suspect I don't need to tell you—is that you are expected to behave professionally here at HQ. On assignment, you are expected to behave as the situation dictates. In your private life, you have no restrictions from us. I have advised Mr. Solo similarly."

Illya allowed himself a small smirk. "I expect you'd have profited more from advising him twice."

"I agree." Bai leaned back with a returning grin. "Now, Mr. Solo informed me that there is an apartment he wanted to show you, as a prospective new residence. He is waiting for you at the front desk."

And indeed he was. Once Illya had made his way there, Napoleon called for a cab and commented, "Mr. Bai mentioned that he was going to waylay you."

"Yes. He has great faith in your capacity to act professional." Illya looked him up and down swiftly. "No more crutches for you?"

"It wasn't the worst break in the world." Solo lifted his leg a bit and sort of slow-motion kicked his protectively-booted foot. "The doc says this should be fine, long as I don't get overenthusiastic about long walks until I'm cleared for it."

"There goes your dating profile."

"Hmm?"

Illya shrugged one shoulder and they turned in their badges, heading outside to wait around the corner. When a cab pulled to the curb, Napoleon moved closer and the driver called out to him, "You are Central Park?"

"That's us," Solo confirmed and, as they got in, Illya frowned to the American, "Mr. Bai said you were showing me an apartment."

The brunet grinned and shrugged. "So we're going by way of Central Park."

"What was that you just said about limiting your enthusiasm for long walks…?"

"We can find a bench."

Illya frowned but figured Napoleon seemed in one of his Mysterious Grand Surprise moods and decided to save his breath. There was little chance he'd get anything definitive out of the other man, and he might need his breath to berate Solo later. Then a thought occurred to him and he decided to risk wasting a few gasps of air.

"Napoleon, surely this apartment you are showing me is not within a short walking distance of Central Park."

"What if it was?"

"Surely you are not delusional enough to think my stipend is generous enough to afford me an apartment near Central Park."

"You just got a nice new job that comes with a housing allowance."

"A housing allowance that generous is undoubtedly beyond my pay grade."

"Let's see if you like it before you start worrying about the price tag."

"Spoken like a man without a budget."

Napoleon's brow furrowed, and Illya had to repress a triumphal smile. It seemed that he had won: Solo came clean.

"My parents own a place on West 81st. When I came to New York for college, they told me I was welcome to it, but I preferred to have the dorm experience. Now that the dorms are off the table for both of us, it seems very welcoming. Two bedrooms, one bath. About thirteen hundred square feet. Not palatial, but homey…"

As Napoleon prattled on, Illya ran an imaginary finger over the map of Manhattan he'd committed to memory when he decided to come to New York. "West— _Napoleon_!"

"It's near the park and the Museum of Natural History."

"I know!"

Napoleon raised an amused eyebrow at the near-horrified expression on the Russian's face.

"Oh, Napoleon, this is very considerate of you but I cannot—" Illya dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, Napoleon."

"Can't you at least look it over before deciding you cannot whatever-it-was you were going to say you couldn't?"

"We're approaching Central Park," the driver called back. "Where should I be dropping you gentlemen?"

Napoleon leaned forward a bit. "Somewhere along West Central will be fine. As close to Natural History as you can manage."

"Yes, sir, I will do that."

Illya stayed quiet the last few minutes of the trip, as Napoleon further specified that they weren't exactly in any condition to get out in a hurry, so could the driver maybe instead pull down this street so they'd have a better shot at actually pausing at a curb instead of making them obstruct traffic as they hobbled out—

"Oh, you are lucky, sir," the driver cut him off. "There is a spot right there." He swerved suddenly and screeched to a halt right near the 81st Street-Museum of Natural History subway station.

Solo flashed a grin. "I always knew I was a lucky sort of a fella." As he paid the driver, he included enough of a tip that the cabbie considered himself to be a lucky sort of a fella as well.

"You did not miscount, sir?" the driver hesitantly offered.

"I am an excellent counter," Solo declared as he opened the door and got out. "Mastered my integers in the early grades, I'll have you know."

"There is no mistake," Kuryakin assured the driver before joining the American on the sidewalk.

"Thank you, sir," the cabbie called before pulling away, "good day, sir."

Napoleon's smile automatically widened at the dirty look being sent through narrowed blue eyes.

"Napoleon."

"Yes, Illya, I believe we have successfully established that that is my name."

"I cannot—I cannot…"

Solo chuckled. "Let's expand on that, shall we?"

"It—Napoleon, apartments in this area are surely several times more than most people make in a year."

"My parents own it. They don't expect us to pay market rate to live in a place they hardly ever use anymore." He took Illya's non-cane-holding arm and urged him to move. "Come on, let's at least walk there and have a look-see."

Illya came along, shaking his head as he did so, but not willing to let the exorbitant cost of having taken a cab here go to waste. "I… suppose looking is affordable."

After that, they proceeded quietly, aside from Napoleon's helpfully pointing out all the wonderful features he hoped might sway the blond's opinion.

Look, we're right next to the park.

Hey, there's the Museum of Natural History.

Ooh, the Hayden Planetarium!

That's a nice place to grab a bite.

"And here we are."

They stopped in a small courtyard and Illya blinked wide eyes at the entryway. "Oh, Napoleon…"

"Will you stop saying 'oh, Napoleon'? You already agreed to take a peek. No backsies."

"But… it is of a different class than I am."

"Yes, it is," Napoleon agreed. "You're far superior." He sighed a bit at the skeptical look on his prospective housemate's face. "How'd you ever survive the hallowed halls of Cambridge if this is how you react to a somewhat less-hallowed apartment building?"

"Cambridge is devoted to academic endeavors. I have full confidence in my capacity in that area."

"What is it that people do in their apartments?"

One blond eyebrow arched.

"Well?"

"Sleep. Eat. Use the facilities…"

"Do you have full confidence in your capacity for eating, sleeping, and shi—er, using facilities?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't have any excuses left."

Illya shifted his gaze around quickly before leaning in to ask very quietly, "I will not look like a… callboy?"

" _ **WHA**_ _—_ "

Illya slapped a hand over the American's mouth. "I was whispering for a reason, you imbecile," he hissed, removing the hand.

When Solo was still looking at him like he was crazy, Kuryakin sort of looked around again and muttered by way of explanation, "I attended a scholarly conference in South Korea once and was mistaken for a prostitute."

"You've said you trust me," Napoleon said, now serious because, while he himself found the story humorous ( _Definitely asking about that one later._ ), it was obvious that the younger man looked back on the situation as being less than amusing. "Trust me on this." He put a hand on the nearer shoulder and pressed him forward until they were at the door, where they almost collided with a heavyset woman on her way out.

"Oh, pardon—why, if it isn't Napoleon Solo!"

"Only if it isn't Mrs. Brundtland!" Napoleon quickly took her hand to give it a brief kiss. "Long time no see, my dear lady."

"Yes, indeed. And darling Rufus always had such a soft spot for you. Will you be around long enough to give him a thrill?"

"If I'm lucky." A wink to Illya. "And I generally am. Oh—" Solo reaffixed his palm to Kuryakin's shoulder. "—Mrs. Brundtland, this is Illya Kuryakin. I might be moving back in here, and I'm having a heck of a time talking this idiot into putting up with the horror of living in a nice place. Illya struggles with accepting the finer things in life." He leaned in a bit to stage-whisper, "He's Russian."

Illya shot a dour look in Napoleon's direction before nodding at Mrs. Brundtland with a curt, " _Madame_."

"Well, this is a wonderful building," the lady beamed to her newest acquaintance. "Wonderful location, very secure, spacious layouts—most of the time we have a doorman—oh, but that finicky, finicky Ms. Ravel!" She turned back to Napoleon. "Thomson has been out sick and she still won't let anyone substitute for him." Back to Illya. "Ms. Ravel lives here, too, and Thomson is the doorman. She kicked up such a fuss the first time Management hired a temp to fill in for Thomson, that we simply go without if Thomson can't come in."

"Thank you for elucidating the true struggles of taking up residence in this building, Madame," Illya deadpanned. "Napoleon, I could not possibly live in such a hellhole. Let us go."

As he made to leave, Napoleon grabbed his arm and Mrs. Brundtland exclaimed, "Oh, no, I know it's bratty of me to have such—such… what is it you kids say? First-world problems? In any case, it really is lovely here, Illya, if you can stand to live within a five-mile radius of a spoiled old lady like me and a spoiled young lady like Ms. Ravel."

Illya forced a smile to Mrs. Brundtland while shooting a pained second-world glance in Napoleon's direction.

"Well, I must go now, boys. But sometime you'll have to tell me what happened to your foot and your hand and, uh…?" She sort of gestured at the cane.

"Knee," Napoleon supplied.

"Yes—my, you boys make quite a pair. Ah, youth." She tutted and shook her head with a grin. "I'll see you around, Napoleon. It's nice to meet you, Illya."

Napoleon kissed her hand again and Illya offered another nod. As soon as Mrs. Brundtland had left and they had entered the building, the American explained, "Darling Rufus is Mrs. Brundtland's dog."

"I did not ask. Though one always has hopes that a human in this day and age would give due consideration to the matter of naming their child Rufus." He followed Napoleon to the elevators and, when the brunet pressed the Call button, asked, "Which floor?"

"Four."

Illya stepped away. "I will meet you there." He started toward the door marked _Stairs_.

"You're kidding, right?" Solo called after. "What's wrong with the elevator?"

"Elevator… ah, you mean the death box."

"You're willing to single-handedly disarm evildoers but _elevators_ is where you draw the line?"

"Beauty and brains. I am privileged to be affiliated with a man of your observational prowess."

"You'll strain your leg or your ribs or both. We're already walking more than Dr. Jimenez would probably be happy with."

Illya paused at the door. "I have a cane and there is presumably a railing to further support me."

"If you use both, you'll irritate your hand."

"If you pursue this argument, you'll irritate me. You have already coaxed me into viewing an apartment over which I have clearly expressed some apprehension. Be so kind as to allow me get there in my own way." With that, Illya opened the door.

Napoleon dropped his head back, silently asked the ceiling to grant him patience, then made his way over to the stairs, saying, " _Wait!_ " in such an uncharacteristically sharp voice that Illya took notice and froze, letting his companion brush past him and into the stairwell.

"Your foot—"

"Is certainly not worse off than your combined injuries. And this way, at least I can regulate the speed of your ascent." The American led the way up, muttering that he was suddenly glad his parents hadn't managed to obtain a place on an upper story when they'd procured the apartment all those years ago.

A few stairs in, Illya asked in a tenuous tenor, "So this is where you lived when you moved from Kansas to New York as a child?"

Taking note of the other's wary voice, Napoleon made sure to resume his own, usual, upbeat tone. "Yes. They kept the place even after we moved out West again, since we still visited the City a couple times a year and my mom hates hotels."

"It usually stands empty, then?"

"That it does, dear thorn in my side."

"And you're quite certain your parents wouldn't mind me moving in, seeing as their standing invitation was to you only?"

"Yes. I knew you'd ask that, so I called them yesterday to make doubly sure." Solo paused on a landing. "They said I was silly for asking, and that of course that sweet young man was welcome to move in. Actually, the word 'dingus' was involved."

"You will forgive me if I say I don't believe your parents called you a dingus."

"As well you shouldn't." Solo approached the last set of stairs. " _I_ said _you_ were a dingus who wouldn't trust them to welcome you to move into the joint." He pushed the door to the hallway open and held it for Illya, letting the glaring Russian pass through.

"And was it also you who called me sweet?"

Between its being the truth, and his not wanting to spark a week's worth of _I'm not sweet and I'll prove it to you_ scowling, the only answer was, "No." He affected a grim expression and further intoned, "It was my mother. She doesn't know you the way I do."

The slight upturn of the mouth—an indicator of wanting to smile but not wanting anyone to see said smile—demonstrated that Solo's response had been the correct one.

As he withdrew the keyring from his pocket and headed to 4A, Napoleon commented, "Sometime you must let me in on why elevators ain't good enough for ya."

"Put simply, my friend," Illya said as the appropriate door was unlocked, "I hate them."

"You mean you're not going to wow me with a thesis of logical reasons to spurn the despicable lift?"

"I could if you like, but I assume you would not like."

"And you say you're not sensitive to people's feelings."

Napoleon locked the door again, glancing as he did at a small chalkboard hanging by the doorway. He nodded at the hastily-drawn seagull in flight drawn on the board, remarking, "Clear. The place has been empty for a while, so I had some of the folks at the office run down and do a thorough security check. We'll do our own sweeps if we move in, but for a start it's good to have had a specialist go over it."

"Ah."

"You'll learn how to do the sweep tomorrow, I think. It's part of the essential training that you're being forced to suffer through despite your current incapacities."

"I would rather suffer the essentials now than be reliant on your… essentials for longer than necessary."

Napoleon took this as a statement of fact rather than a snide comment on his capabilities—after all, it wouldn't do to have one agent overly dependent on another—and started the tour by removing his own coat and, when Illya removed his as well, hung both garments on the nearby rack.

They proceeded slowly partway down the hall, and Napoleon soon gestured to an open doorway on their left. "Kitchen."

The Russian obligingly edged closer to the aperture and peered around the galley kitchen with its breakfast nook at the far end. "Serviceable," he declared, and Napoleon supposed that was the closest thing to a compliment that he could reasonably expect.

"Living room."

"Ironic."

Napoleon raised his brows.

"No humans live in it, you said, and I assume a residence of this caliber would be moderately successful in expelling any infestations of insect or rodent life."

"Bedroom one. Bedroom two. Bathroom." Napoleon flung open the three doors in as rapid a succession as he could manage given his podiatric impediment. "I call dibs on número uno. That was my room as a kid and I'm still territorial over it. So do the digs conform to your discriminating demands?"

Illya gave a nod that seemed more an acknowledgement of Napoleon's having spoken than an agreement with the words used. This apparent distractedness was confirmed, as his wandering gaze was backed up by his head turning away. The American noted that his attention seemed to have been caught by the large window that made up most of one of the ironic living room's walls, and he accordingly hobbled on over to open one of the windows and gesture for the other to join him.

The Russian came over and Napoleon suggested he look to the left. You could just about see Museum property from this angle, and he was counting on Illya's recognizing this and being unable to resist the prospect of living there.

Illya leaned a bit out the window and looked left and, based on his reaction, seemed to have achieved the recognition that Napoleon had been hoping for: _"Chert voz'mi, Napoleon!"_

"That didn't sound like a happy word."

"It is Russian, Napoleon, it is not the language of pussycats and buttercups."

Napoleon chuckled, then gathered himself to inquire, "Does that mean you're amenable to the idea of moving in?"

"No, it means 'damn it'." Illya brought his head back inside the room and shut the window. "But yes, I would like to move in."

"From that frown on your face, I'm sensing another 'but' in there."

"There are a few."

"Let's go over them, then." Napoleon sank into the sofa, nodding for Illya to join him if he liked, which he did. "So?"

"I know we would be operating as housemates in this capacity, and you have already indicated that we would have separate bedrooms, but in light of our being in a relationship…." Illya shrugged, letting the implication linger.

Napoleon shrugged back. "You said it yourself. Housemates. Separate bedrooms. If or when we change the sleeping arrangements, that's up to you. If it were up to me, I'd certainly be open to it, but anything that makes you uncomfortable on that front is not acceptable. Good enough?"

Illya nodded.

"Next 'but'."

"I would not be comfortable without paying rent of some kind."

"Mr. and Mrs. Solo refuse to accept rent, but they said we would pay our own expenses. Utilities, food, etcetera. We can go halves on the utilities and groceries. Good?"

"May I also do most of the cleaning?"

"Why?"

"This is your family inheritance, Napoleon, not mine. I must compensate for that."

"If you clean, I cook."

Illya made a sound of agreement, as that wasn't much of a sacrifice: he couldn't cook anyway. Really, he would be doing the American a favor by not cooking. But Napoleon did not particularly need to know that detail at the moment.

"Next?"

"The remainder is comprised of my own troubles, and you need not concern yourself."

"I don't mind being concerned if you want to share, notwithstanding."

Illya shrugged. They weren't exactly deep, dark, deviant troubles, and he had recently discovered that he got a bit of a thrill from sharing bits of his feelings with Napoleon. That was rather an odd development, actually, as he hated sharing things with the therapists he'd previously seen and would never dream of expressing personal thoughts to anybody else. Even his parents.

Or maybe especially his parents.

Whichever way it was, this was Napoleon here, and Illya had grown rather disconcertingly fond of Napoleon, and so Illya admitted, "I feel taking this up as a residence is an enormous self-indulgence on my part. Also, I do not look forward to informing my parents of my new residence."

"You just signed up with U.N.C.L.E. Not exactly the least risky career option you could've gone with. I think you deserve a little self-indulgence. Plus…" Napoleon took his companion's un-bandaged hand. "…we'd have more time to get acquainted."

Illya frowned. "Between our interpersonal interactions and your having had a camera in my room, I fail to see how much more you might expect us to be acquainted."

"As much more as it takes for you not to blush when I do this." He brought the hand up, pressed his lips to the knuckles, and smiled as the expected color filled the attached person's cheeks. "And this." He brushed a few fingers along the side of Illya's face. "And this." A chaste meeting of the lips.

As they parted, Illya cleared his throat but still didn't achieve quite a natural tone as he said, "I see. It… I will work on that."

"No rush."

Another clearing of the throat, and this time he sounded just about normal as he asked, "Now what?"

"Now we draw up our roommate agreement."

Illya sighed. "I suppose I have to give up setting off explosions in my room."

That had been Napoleon's first request exactly, but the Russian looked so despondent about it that he changed course. "Let's not be hasty. I'm sure we can figure out a way to keep the building intact without forcing you to give up your favorite hobby."

Illya gave a sniff. "How do you know it is my favorite?"

"If I could blow things up for fun without blowing myself up in the process, it would certainly be _my_ favorite hobby. I was projecting my feelings onto you."

The younger man shrugged and admitted, "You are not wrong."

"Can you do your hobby without having to disarm the fire alarms?"

Another shrug. "It is not as much fun without lots of smoke and sparks, but I suppose I must make some compromise."

That seemed to be all Kuryakin had to say on the matter, but it stopped short of a commitment so the American pressed, "Does that mean yes?"

Illya nodded.

"Okay. As long as you only do it when you're well-rested, and as long as you keep it small enough to not set off any alarms, and as long as you don't use things that could produce shrapnel that might permanently damage walls and furniture… you may continue exploding things in your room."

Napoleon was fairly certain that this wasn't part of his parents' mental equations when they said that _of course_ that sweet boyfriend of his was _absolutely welcome_ to move in. Provided Illya didn't blow any walls out, however, he figured that he'd be exempt from having to explain the younger man's preferred pastime to Mr. and Mrs. Solo.

A bright smile was the brunet's reward for this prospective lapse in sanity, and Illya sounded perilously close to cheerful as he pledged to comply with the proposed conditions.

* * *

 _Mid-December_

As he shut off the showerhead, soft sounds from the living room television made their way through the bathroom walls, and he allowed himself a small smile from the satisfaction of knowing that Napoleon had made it back safely.

Not that there had been much doubt of that given that he'd been on a simple courier mission, but it had been Solo's first solo operation and it wasn't unheard of for things to go wrong on even the simplest of tasks, so maybe Kuryakin would even allow a hint of warmth to enter his voice when he saw his housemate and commented, _I see you made it._

Dried and dressed, he opened the door and gaped for half a second at the middle-aged woman holding a tray of hot beverages by the coffee table.

 _No obvious weaponry._

 _Female, middle-aged._

 _Holding a tray with more than one serving—thoughtful._

 _Could hear someone was in the shower but surprised to see me—expected someone else._

 _No signs of forced entry, coat on the sofa arm, suitcase nearby—making herself at home._

 _The Solos' home._

 _A Solo._

"Would you happen to be Napoleon's aunt?" Illya asked, half ready to slam the door shut and lock himself in the bathroom as he called for backup. He held himself partly behind the door, but not in such a way that it would be obvious he was considering a brisk retreat.

"Why, yes." The lady's startled features softened into a smile. "I'm Amy, and you must be Illya."

The Russian nodded and finally stepped out from behind his shield—er, door.

"Flora was right," Aunt Amy chuckled, setting down her tray. "You do look like one of my china dolls. Napoleon always did have good taste. Speaking of, I was actually expecting it was him in the shower."

"He's at work," Illya supplied as he approached. "He will be back soon."

When he hesitated at the far end of the couch, Amy grinned, "Well, sit down and we'll have some cocoa." They sat. "Before I arrived, I actually wasn't expecting anyone at all in the shower… I didn't think anyone would be here."

Illya blinked a couple of times. "Napoleon did not tell you, then. We ran into some difficulties at the dorm we lived at, so he suggested we move here."

She handed over a mug, cautioned it was hot, and asked, "Do any of those difficulties have to do with that limp of yours?"

"Yes." Following the agreed-upon cover story, he made sure to allow his usually-repressed tendency toward a stilted delivery to shine through. "There was a girl who… was harassing me a bit and… well." He flashed a grimace of a smile, and it had the desired effect.

"Say no more, my dear. I don't mind at all that you're here: I just would have expected Napoleon to tell me you boys were moving in. He knows that I always spend a few days in New York around Christmastime, and I always stay here."

Illya rose to his feet. "I am terribly sorry but Napoleon did not tell me, either. I will clear some things from the bedroom I have been using and you can settle in."

Amy laughed a bit. "Oh, please—please, sit. I'm on vacation, for Pete's sake," she said, patting his arm lightly as he sat again. "I'm in no rush to move in lock, stock, and barrel." Apparently having noticed he'd not touched his cocoa, aside from holding the mug containing it, she asked, "You don't like chocolate? I could make—"

"That is not necessary. Forgive my paranoia, but what is in it?"

"Cocoa powder, milk, and sugar. Aunt Amy doesn't go in for roofies, dear."

Illya silently damned the flush that burned his ears, then explained, "I have food sensitivities. As I have been doing well with my restraints of late…"

"Say no more," she said again. "I was thinking of making dinner tonight. If you could tell me what you can't have, I'm sure I could whip up with something that complies with your… restraints."

A whiff of apology marred his effort at a smile. "It is rather extensive, I'm afraid. I cannot eat anything with gluten."

"Hmm, what's that…?" She snapped her fingers a couple of times. "Celiac?"

He nodded.

"One of my girlfriends has it. I can cook for that."

Illya blinked back his surprise. It seemed Napoleon wasn't the only one in his family who possessed a talent with the ladies. Well, given his own social shortcomings, he was hardly one to judge if Aunt Amy had multiple girlfriends, so he simply smiled a bit more successfully and offered, "That is very kind of you."

"It's my pleasure, dear." She stood. "I'll just rummage around your fridge and see what I've got to work with, or if I have to make a grocery run."

After surveying the refrigerator and cabinets, Amy decided that her flash of culinary inspiration required some extra ingredients and turned down Illya's offer of company, saying that he could stay home and wait for Napoleon.

"I'm giving you the very important task of chewing him out for not telling either of us what he should have," she declared, donned her coat, grabbed her purse, and left. Then she opened the door again, stuck her head in, and added, "Make sure you do it with love though, dear," before leaving for real.

As soon as he was sure she'd left, Illya set to clearing his more personal things from his room, depositing assorted items in a suitcase, then moving the bag into Napoleon's room. They could decide later on exactly what the sleeping arrangements would be but at least Aunt Amy now had a room to herself. He took her bag and left it at the foot of his—Amy's—bed.

"I'm home!"

Illya strode to the door, grabbed the collar at Napoleon's throat in one hand, and drew him in for several seconds' worth of kissing. Once he was through, he straightened the American's shirt, dusted a bit of snow off the shoulder, and said with a curt nod, "Well done."

As the blond headed further into the apartment, Napoleon shed his coat and followed, asking, "Not that I need to understand the justification for that warmest of welcomes, but 'well done' on what?"

"Returning home in one piece."

"Hmm, if that's what I get for a single courier mission, I can't wait 'til I'm working full time." He made to grasp Illya's elbow, but it was yanked out of his reach.

"No, I am supposed to chew you out now."

Solo raised his eyebrows.

"You failed to inform me that your Aunt Amy would be staying here for Christmas. And you failed to inform your Aunt Amy that we live here now."

"Oops." Napoleon glanced around a bit. "But how did you know?"

"She was in the living room when I finished my shower. It almost startled me."

"A thousand apologies, mon chou. At least in your almost-startlement you did not kill her." He glanced around again, as if just realizing a somewhat disturbing lack of Aunt Amy's in the vicinity, then fixed an only semi-jocular gaze of suspicion on his companion.

Illya rolled his eyes. "I did not assassinate your aunt, Napoleon."

"Much appreciated." Napoleon started walking through the place, calling, "Aunt Amy, yoo-hoo!" Upon making a full circuit of the apartment, he returned to the Russian and said, "Okay, I give up. Where are you stashing her?"

"She went out to pick up some groceries. She very generously offered to make us dinner."

"Did you tell her—"

"Yes. She said she knows how to cook gluten-free because one of her girlfriends shares my condition." He frowned a bit. "It was surprising to find that you are not the preeminent lothario in your family but she seems nice, notwithstanding."

"Lothari—oh, Illya." Napoleon laughed. "When a woman talks about her girlfriends, she's usually talking about friends who happen to be female."

"That seems unnecessarily confusing."

"Yup. Well, if you're done dressing me down, can I get another kiss now?"

Illya tilted his head. "I guessed what 'chewing out' meant based on the context, but I am not clear as to the degree of severity implied." He tilted his head to the other side, pouted a bit, and glared at the floor in thought. "She did say to do it with love, though, so perhaps that has some mitigating effect."

As he went back to pondering, Napoleon leaned in a bit but stopped when the other started speaking again. "Ah—I hope you do not mind, but I moved some of my things to your room so your aunt can have her own space."

"That's fine. Do you mind sharing the bed or—"

"Do not dare to offer me your own bed."

Napoleon smiled and didn't bother trying to claim that that hadn't been the alternative he was about to offer.

Illya squared his shoulders. "We can share."

Placing a hand on either side of the blond head, Napoleon pressed a brief kiss to his forehead, as if to emphasize the point he was about to make. "There's no need to look so grim, Illya. You aren't about to enter the wolf's den. There won't be any funny business." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Unless you want there to be."

"No. Thank you. Perhaps some other time."

* * *

Later that night, as each of them respectably occupied his own side of the bed, Illya commented, "You must find it rather dull. That you make overtures in certain directions only to have me insist 'no, not now, later.'"

"I only keep trying since you say 'later'. Whenever 'later' turns out to be is fine. You're worth the wait."

"There is no rational way for you to have come to that conclusion. Given that you are the only person I have ever kissed, the reasonable—and correct—inference would be that I have no other skills to draw upon in giving you pleasure."

"You're a fast learner. And the goal is for us both to be doing the giving in some way. It's not as if you'd be going it alone."

"Yes. But…. Napoleon."

The gap between each word was longer than each previous pause and, after the _Napoleon_ , Solo prompted quietly, "What is it?"

"I… nothing."

"No. It's something and, whatever it is, you're nervous about it."

"You'll laugh."

"If you can try to tell me, I can try not to laugh."

Illya grunted, and the dim light revealed white teeth bared in a bit of a grimace. "You'll have to try very hard. It is quite… ridiculous."

"Even if _it_ is ridiculous, _you_ are not, mon chou."

A pause. Then, "I don't know how it works."

"It?"

"Intimate relations between men. Based on human anatomy and some terminology used in electrical engineering, I was able to infer how a man and a woman… engage… but I have not been able to guess at the mechanics between two men. Perhaps if I put more effort into such a thought experiment—"

Napoleon frowned at the silhouette beside him. He cut into the uncharacteristic rambling with, "Infer? Illya, didn't you get The Talk?"

"What talk?"

"Didn't your parents tell you about sex? Or, at least, didn't you learn about it in school for health class or something?"

"My talents were such that I was permitted to skip some subjects considered less vital to my academic career. I expect this health class you speak of was among those subjects. And no, my parents do not seem to have gotten around to raising the issue with me." Illya swallowed. "I suppose at my age it is rather silly—"

"I'm not laughing, Illya." He reached out to take the younger man's hand and kissed the knuckles. "I promise we'll have a good talk about everything before we even consider anything more than what we've done, okay?"

"Okay."

"And just because we talk about things doesn't mean we'll do anything you're uncomfortable with, okay?"

Illya nodded.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to but you were never… curious? You never even, say, did an internet search…?"

"While I do not watch it myself, I am aware that pornography exists and is quite popular online and can be… intimidating. Given the nature of the search terms, I decided that some things were better left… un-Googled, as it were."

"Probably a wise move on that one," Napoleon conceded.

"Additionally, I was not previously interested in devoting much attention to investigating the subject. I only researched anatomy and considered the process of procreation as it seemed a fundamental piece of knowledge for a human to possess. My research was not geared toward understanding non-practical aspects of the subject."

"Not… _previously_ interested?" Napoleon prodded gingerly.

Illya squeezed the hand still holding his own. "Yes. In light of… recent developments…." He cleared his throat and withdrew from the localized embrace. "I believe I have embarrassed myself enough for one evening. It is late and we should sleep now."

"There's no reason to be embarrassed, but okay. Good night."

Illya rolled over, returning, "Good night," over his shoulder.

After that, Napoleon stared at the ceiling for a while. He'd figured that—at the very worst—if he somehow changed his mind and decided to have kids—assuming he didn't manage to palm off the job on someone else—he had a solid fifteen or twenty years before having to give The Talk. And, in any case, he'd never thought that he'd have to give The Talk to The Boyfriend.

It was astonishing how Illya could be so mature in some ways—intelligent and courageous and cynical and sarcastic—and yet have managed to go his entire life without anything other than an educated guess as to how basic procreation was carried out. At least that reassured Napoleon that it was the unknown rather than the American himself that made Illya so nervous: it only made sense that someone with virtually no clue about dating and "intimate relations", as he called it, should be anxious. Hell, Napoleon was anxious and, while he'd never been with a guy, at least he had some idea of what he'd be getting into.

* * *

Just as Napoleon was drifting off, a buzzing sound reawakened him. He grabbed for his communicator, assembled it through muscle memory more than any conscious effort at dexterity, and mumbled, "Solo here."

 _"Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, bucko, but you're on assignment as of two minutes ago."_

"Always good to hear from you, Ger," Napoleon half-sighed, partly for Illya's edification, as the Russian had apparently also noted the vibrations and was now propped up on an elbow, staring at him. "Am I going to the office first, or straight off to wherever-I'm-going?"

 _"Office first. Pack a bag, kid. Brazil must be beautiful this time of year… all those sweaty swimsuits."_

Napoleon chuckled and rolled out of bed, stepping to the closet containing his suitcase as he asked, "Jealous or disgusted, Gerry-pie?"

 _"It's a heady mixture of secondhand sunstroke and deep-seated repulsion."_

"Not a beach person, I take it. Anyway, get yourself a little better acquainted with Mr. Kuryakin while I pack." Napoleon chucked the communicator over to the bed and Illya (unsurprisingly not in the mood for chit-chat) picked it up in much the same manner as he'd likely handle a rattlesnake.

"Hello, Gerry."

 _"Greetings, Mr. Kuryakin. My regrets for having called at such an inopportune time."_

"I cannot fault you for doing your work. Have you any idea when Mr. Solo will be returned?"

 _"Can't give you an exact ETA, sir, but Waverly wouldn't want Solo missing his last semester at university. Odds are he'll be back by mid-January at the latest, in time for the start of classes."_

Napoleon looked up from packing socks, asking with a wry twist of his lips, "You call that getting acquainted?"

Illya arched a brow in return. "It seems Mr. Solo was serious about us knowing each other better, Gerry."

A brief laugh wheezed through the communicator. _"Okay. My favorite color is blue. What's yours, sir?"_

"I suppose black is not technically a color, but I prefer things in that shade as opposed to others. My musical inclinations currently tend toward the compositions of Rachmaninoff. What music do you like?"

 _"Lately I've been going in for Dvorak. Not overly original of me, but I've had the New World on repeat for the past week."_

"Excellent. We have found common ground in our taste in music." The Russian pierced his housemate with a glare. "One hopes this progress is sufficiently satisfactory for Mr. Solo." When Napoleon flashed a smile, Illya added, "If there are no further words you must exchange with Mr. Solo at this juncture, I shall terminate our contact."

 _"Nothing else, sir. Good night, Mr. Kuryakin."_

"Good night, Gerry."

As Napoleon caught the communicator as Illya lobbed it back to him, he commented, "Bummer that duty calls now, of all times. I was looking forward to the holidays."

Illya split his response between a nod and a shrug. They'd been planning to have Christmas à la Napoleon (since the occasion barely registered on Illya's internal calendar, aside from the now-tainted memories of Dr. Egret sharing holiday movies with him) and New Year's à la Illya (except with less vodka).

Napoleon stepped behind the closet door for a few moments to get dressed and soon emerged saying, "Darn it—Aunt Amy—"

"Will, I'm sure, be disappointed not to get more time with you but it cannot be helped. Your friend called in the middle of the night with an emergency and, as you are such a nice person, you immediately rushed to their aid. It is a personal issue so, of course, you could not tell me about it, and you don't know when you'll be back, but you'll text when you can."

Napoleon grinned. "I always knew I was a real pal. Anyway, Aunt Amy knows you weren't expecting her, so she won't expect you to be entertaining. Just go about your business and maybe spare her a sidelong glance once in a while."

Illya nodded.

"Oh, except for the blowing-things-up part. Don't do that part of your business while she's here."

Illya dropped back, the person giving a sigh and the pillow giving a _poof_ as a head plumped into it. "You are leaving and you are also taking away my explosions. I am bereft of all the pleasures in life."

Napoleon frowned at him for several seconds, over the course of which he reached his verdict: _bluffing_. "No explosions," the American said in a scolding tone.

The Russian sighed a bit and sat up. "It was worth a shot." Perhaps he could develop a sudden interest in cookery while Napoleon was away. Surely he could manage to be bad enough at it to develop a more interesting demise for a soufflé than a simple collapse.

Napoleon came back over. "Can I get me a nice send-off?"

Illya's brow furrowed. "That seems an odd way to say goodbye."

"Is it?"

Illya nodded and, when Napoleon seemed perplexed, reluctantly demonstrated the gesture, prompting the American to burst into quiet laughter. "Illya, I said 'send-off', not 'flip me off'! This is what I meant…" and he demonstrated with a gentle kiss on the lips.

As they parted, the blond admitted, "That is much nicer."

Napoleon pressed their foreheads together. "I'll miss you."

"If you do not return intact I will not be pleased."

"How touching." Napoleon stole another kiss before pulling away. "See you sooner rather than later, I hope."

Illya nodded as Napoleon headed to the door. Realizing that it was unlikely that "soon" would be as soon as the twenty-fifth, he scrambled up and urged, "Wait!" The Russian reached into his backpack and chucked a small, gift-wrapped box at the waiting man.

Napoleon managed to take it up with his free hand, grinning. He slipped the gift into a side pocket of his suitcase. "Thanks. Yours is in the back of my sock drawer."

"I know."

Napoleon gave a huff of mock displeasure. "Next time I'll snitch on you to Santa."

Illya rolled his eyes. "Happy Christmas, stoolie."

"Happy New Year, brat."

* * *

 **A/N:** As a heads-up for the rest of the chapters, Mark Slate only gets a small role and April Dancer is just barely mentioned in the story, so if you liked them in TUIDA… sorry. I do have vague notions of a third story, however, because I'm an idiot that way; that vague notion involves more April and (since they're a package deal) probably Mark, too.

Meanwhile, updates will be slow as the rest of the chapters are not completely written yet. They'll get done eventually as I know the gist of what's going to happen in each, but they're not in a fit state for posting at the present time. I'll write as fast as I can but… y'know… real life, etc. :)

And FYI, chapter titles are named after songs that I thought fit the mood of the content. Does that make this a songfic? This chapter's songs are from George Gershwin (spoiler: every chapter includes something from Gershwin) and Mika. Or MIKA. Depends how enthusiastic you're feeling, I guess.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Act II: Blue lullaby

**A/N** : Greetings and welcome to the second chapter, where everything goes to heck in a handbasket. Sorry if this chapter's a bit feeble, but I wanted to get it posted in all its feeble glory _now_ instead of unproductively stewing over it for a couple months and _then_ posting it in all its feeble glory.

Chapter **warnings** : acid burns again (brief and nothing graphic), character deaths (OCs only, also brief but slightly more graphic), drug references (yes, that includes alcohol)

* * *

 **Act II** : Blue Lullaby/Enter Sandman

 _Four years ago_

He was always careful in the labs, as any reasonable person would be. His less reasonable coworkers therefore were in the habit of teasing him for the fact that his only injury sustained in the line of duty tended to be the occasional papercut when he submitted research proposals or reported results. Now, however, they were in the habit of cycling through whenever the doctors said he was up to having visitors, each bearing an unaccountably guilty expression.

It suddenly became slightly more accountable when one of them cracked and blurted out that they had all punted around the field assignment until Ogola was asked to be the official chemicals expert on the Aristophanes Corporation affair. In light of the acid burns their colleague had sustained, everyone essentially felt like crap.

While it was almost a relief that their odd facial contortions were guilt rather than pity, the uniform uncomfortableness of his visitors was getting a trifle annoying. Having Alexander Waverly drop by was therefore refreshing enough that Ogola managed not to dissolve into a panicked puddle upon seeing the big boss of the New York office.

After opening with a fairly standard howdy-do, Waverly remarked, "It has been brought to my attention that you have been asking after the outcome of your previous mission."

Ogola muttered an affirmation, as nodding or pretty much anything else involving neck motions was essentially off the table for the time being. And yes, he had asked once about what had happened to rookie agent Lavoisier and the chemical plant they'd been sent to shut down. After that, he'd decided that maybe he didn't want to know after all and hadn't asked again. If Mr. Waverly had schlepped himself all the way to Medical for a schmuck who'd helped muck up a mission, however, Ogola wasn't about to put a damper on the old man's consideration.

"The bad news is that, despite your best effort to remove him from immediate danger, Mr. Lavoisier passed on shortly after the extraction team was sent in. Allow me to assure you, Mr. Ogola, that you did as much as you could do—and, indeed, more than we would have expected. U.N.C.L.E. does not consider you responsible for what transpired, and we hope that you can trust our judgement on that matter."

"I appreciate it, sir."

Mr. Waverly grunted a bit, a brief furrow of his brow indicating that the noncommittal nature of the response had not gone unnoticed. "As for the Aristophanes chemical facility, it has been raided and shut down. The corporation itself has not been dissolved but, given the attention that has been brought to it, we anticipate its being turned around into a legitimate company—at least temporarily—or forced by government regulators into dissolution."

"Glad to hear it, sir."

"Indeed. Ah, yes—and the last prospective recruit you were sent to see—Mr. Solo—has signed on with our Los Angeles office."

If memory served, Solo had been the cocky all-American type who'd tried to convince the U.N.C.L.E. recruiters that he would be perfectly happy having local volunteer work be his contribution to world improvement. If memory further served, Ogola had laughed in the kid's face.

Not that there was anything wrong with local volunteering—someone had to do that sort of thing, after all. It was simply preposterous to picture known adrenaline junkie Napoleon Solo being satisfied with that lot.

"Good to know I didn't drive him off, sir. But, Mr. Waverly—"

Waverly let a few seconds pass after Ogola cut himself off before prompting, "Yes?"

"This is way out of line for me to say, sir, but I'll bank on your magnanimity, given the circumstances." Ogola reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a sip before continuing. "Mr. Lavoisier was a good guy. Smart, brave—really a nice kid, sir. But he was still practically a kid. And I know he could've made a great agent, but I—this is really out of line, sir, but I think he could've done with more training before being sent on a mission like that one. I know I could've done with more training. Sir."

Mr. Waverly harrumphed again but didn't look half as irritated as Ogola had half-feared. "I'll take it under advisement. Oh, yes, and in the event that it has not been made clear to you, Mr. Ogola, you still have a position in U.N.C.L.E., if you care to keep it."

"Thanks, sir, but the medical staff hasn't seemed overly optimistic about the future of my phalanges, as far as delicate operations go. And while I've mostly been shuttling between sheer agony and buzzing on pain meds, I've also been led to believe that I'll be getting to know the psych staff, like, real well over the next few months."

"Well, well, there's more to our organization than working in a lab or in the field, Mr. Ogola. If secretarial work is not entirely repugnant to you, you would be welcome to stay on in that capacity. The psych and medical staff would be a stone's throw away—it is entirely your choice, of course, but I believe staying on with us could provide quite a good means of… adjustment for you."

"If I can figure my way around one of those office phones, sir, you got yourself an extra secretary."

* * *

 _Mid-December_

"Good morning, Ms. Khan." He tapped at his own head to indicate the hijab around hers. "That's a nice color on you."

Mr. Waverly's secretary grinned and nodded. "In exchange for that compliment, you can go straight in, Napoleon."

"I'll remember that trick for the next time I want to go straight on in."

Solo headed in to the section chief's office, finding the chief (of course) already there, along with two Enforcement agents. Roughly across from Alexander Waverly was the new CEA, Anton Bai, and to Bai's right was his long-time partner, Veronica Wayside. They were an easy pair to remember, as Bai was insultingly tall and capped off by a thatch of prematurely-gray hair, while Wayside changed hair color every month and had biceps that were the envy of everyone else in Enforcement.

All in all, if he was about to be given an assignment with those two, Napoleon decided that he'd have to be the cute, charming one. He further decided that he was well-suited to that role.

"Ah, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly greeted him from the opposite side of the imposing lazy-Susan of a table. "Nice of you to join us."

"Sorry if I'm late, sir," Solo returned, "but I wasn't aware I was on the Active Duty roster. I'll keep a go-bag ready from now on."

Bai patted the chair to his left, so Solo claimed that seat as the CEA explained, "You weren't slated to start officially until you finished your degree, but there's a special circumstance." He turned in deference to the section chief.

Waverly nodded and spun the table around so a small book was in front of Solo, who flipped through the slim tome as the chief briefed him.

"You will be accompanying Mr. Bai and Ms. Wayside to Brasilia. We are looking into the disappearance of two agents from the Sydney office: Melvin Murgatroyd and Sutton Jamison. Mr. Jamison was the last recruit to become an agent before we initiated the trainee program, and there have recently been attempted abductions of rookie agents from several sections. Given Mr. Jamison's relative inexperience, we suspect the vanishing of Murgatroyd and Jamison may be related to those hitherto unsuccessful attempts."

"Do we know what the aim of those attempts might be, sir?" Solo asked since, while the initial goal was obviously abduction, it seemed unreasonable to suppose that the capture of an agent was carried out with the act in and of itself being the end game.

"Based on the targeted individuals, we have several theories, mostly focused around a motive of vengeance…" Waverly noted Solo's slightly quizzical consideration of the book he'd been given. "…and mostly relating to a mission that you are not currently authorized to know of. That is why your briefing materials are restricted to that book on words and phrases in Brazilian Portuguese, Mr. Solo."

Solo opened his mouth for a moment, then clamped it shut.

"What is it?"

"I hope I'm not stepping out of line by asking, sir," Napoleon said slowly, "but am I going along to help with the investigation, or am I going as bait?"

"Both, I'm afraid. Wayside and Bai are our most experienced team, Mr. Solo. You were chosen to join them on this mission to learn from them and potentially to draw out our… mysterious admirer. They were assigned to serve as the primary investigators and to ensure your safe return. As far as it can ever be ensured, of course."

"Of course."

Bai flashed a smile. "We've not yet lost anyone under our watch, Mr. Solo."

"Not even the ones we may have secretly liked to lose," Wayside joked, then promised, "We have every intention of keeping our streak going, Solo."

Waverly cleared his throat. "Well, then, Mr. Solo. Any further questions? Comments, complaints, final wishes?"

Aware that his only actual options were 'questions' and 'nothing'—actually commenting or complaining would remove him from the assignment, and mentioning a final wish would call into question his competency (his last will and testament was supposed to be in order at all times)—Solo shook his head. "No questions, Mr. Waverly."

"Well, then, you three. Dismissed and Godspeed."

* * *

At the airport, the three U.N.C.L.E. agents collected their tickets, then Bai took a security officer aside and, next thing Solo knew, they had been whisked past the security line with their carry-ons and concealed weapons and were heading to the appropriate gate. Solo and Wayside settled themselves on the emptiest available row of seats (the nearest people were an elderly couple in the row behind them), and Bai went off in search of sustenance for the ten-hour flight to their layover destination of Guarulhos.

Almost as soon as their rears hit the barely-padded bench seating, Napoleon had a thought and reached into his bag, saying, "I've never run into this particular predicament, Ms. Wayside, and I wondered if you could provide some guidance." He produced the gift from Illya and held it up enough for the senior agent to see it.

"A little holiday cheer?" Wayside asked.

"Yes and, while Mr. Bai explained our situation to Security here, I'm not sure if I'll be allowed to bring it wrapped on our connecting flight. I was debating whether to open it now."

"We'll probably be fine at Guarulhos, but how about I open it for you and stick it in my bag with the paper, just in case? If we have a few moments where our demise isn't overly imminent, I can rewrap it for you and give it back on the big day."

Napoleon grinned and handed it over. "Thanks."

Veronica shrugged. "Sometimes it's little things like that that keep you from forgetting what normal life is like." She rattled the thing a bit. "You know who gave this to you and everything, right?"

"It's from our new colleague Mr. Kuryakin, so I think we can be reasonably confident that it's not booby-trapped."

Wayside nodded and stood up, then sat down again and commented, "I heard a rumor he likes things that sparkle and fizz. Speaking of, that reminds me: we oughtta get you some sparkle-and-fizz training. Anyway…?" She held up the box.

Besides its not being booby-trapped, Napoleon was also reasonably certain that Illya wouldn't have gifted him with plastic explosives, so he reassured his colleague, "He knew I had a strong chance of air travel being in my future. I don't think he'd be that inconsiderate."

She nodded again and headed off to a different portion of the waiting area to unwrap the present outside of Solo's field of vision. Behind him, the elderly man said to his elderly female companion, "Elma, are you sure we're in gate six?"

The lady sighed. "Yes, Harold, we're in gate six and we're supposed to be in gate six."

"But the check-in clerk said nine, din't he?"

"I dunno. He was a mumbler. But our tickets say it's six."

"Lemme see one."

"Here. Six."

"It's upside down, Elma. See? Nine."

"Who's the one with cataracts, me or you?"

"Who's the one who forgot her glasses, me or you?"

The lady sighed again, and Napoleon turned when she tapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Not to be a bother, dear, but what gate does this say?"

Solo took the paper she handed over, glanced at it, and returned the thing with, "Gate nine, ma'am. This is gate six we're in now."

The man grinned. "Told you, Elma."

The lady glared at him. "Oh, shut up." A smile to Napoleon. "Thank you, dear." Another glare to her companion. "Come on, you old cad."

* * *

 _At gate nine_

"Mr. Park?"

 _"Spotted any pests, Harold?"_

"Yes, two that we recognized, but can't remember the names to. They're with a third guy who called 'em Bai and Wayside, but we're not sure if those're their real names or aliases. We don't have a name to the third man, but he sounds American and looks young and was asking questions of Wayside, so I'd reckon he's a rookie. Brown hair, maybe about average height, on the slim side."

"And handsome."

"Can it, Elma."

Mr. Park tsked. _"Honor thy wife, Harold. Anything else to report?"_

"Yes, the rookie mentioned another new feller by the name of Kerkorian—what is it now, Elma?"

"Oh, gimme that." Elma grabbed the phone. "Kuryakin. The new colleague is Kuryakin, Mr. Park."

* * *

 _In an evil lair someplace or other…_

Andrew Park grinned. Kuryakin, eh? That kid who'd exposed the less than morally-sound operations of his beloved, defunct Aristophanes Corporation had signed on with the U.N.C.L.E.?

Boy, his plot for vengeance was really picking up steam!

That is, it would after this little hiccup with Bai, Wayside, and Anonymous Rookie in Brasilia. That would be a bit boring for all concerned: Park had vacated Brazil weeks ago, leaving behind not very much evidence for the U.N.C.L.E. pests to find. Unless, of course, those bumbling idiots (they were hardly worthy of being called henchmen) had botched up when disposing of the ex-Melvin Murgatroyd and the former Sutton Jamison with acid. Then, just maybe, Alexander Waverly's little flunkies would find something vaguely entertaining.

Once past the Brasilia hiccup, however… steam! Picking! Up!

Really, having two rookie agents as bargaining chips would be better than he could have imagined. If Kuryakin—already known by T.H.R.U.S.H. to be less than a chummy sort of a fellow—was giving gifts to Anonymous Rookie, perhaps they had managed to become friends. And a friend in need was a friend indeed, and all that claptrap, so if Kuryakin could be drawn out from the immediate protection of U.N.C.L.E. and be placed in a position of needing a pal… two rookies to bargain with!

If he was feeling magnanimous, maybe he'd even welch on his soon-to-be-negotiated deal with Waverly ("I'll give you Kuryakin and this other guy in exchange for Ogola, please.") in favor of handing over Kuryakin to T.H.R.U.S.H. Dr. Egret had been less than enthusiastic about saving his beloved chemical company, however, so Park still wasn't all in on the idea of giving her the Russian kid.

In any case, he was confident that it would work this time. He had a good feeling about it. Within a few weeks, all the U.N.C.L.E. agents who'd been directly involved in destroying his dream project would be just as dead as the Aristophanes Corporation.

* * *

 _Back at gate six…_

"How well did Mr. Kuryakin wrap that thing?" Solo joked when Wayside finally returned, well after Bai had completed his mission for airplane snacks.

"I took the privilege of following your new friends to gate nine," Wayside explained.

"My new… you think they were suspicious?"

"You haven't heard of lops, Solo?"

"Lops?" Solo thought for a moment and came up with, "L, O, P… little… old… people. With nothing better to do than notice suspicious people and report them to the police." He grimaced. "Did they try to sic security on us?"

"No—better than that. They called up one of the felonious fellows we've been somewhat suspicious of." She looked to Bai. "They were speaking to a Mr. Park. They caught our names and Kuryakin's, but not Solo's."

"Have you called the office yet to update them?" Bai asked.

"Done. The attempts on rookies have only been away from U.N.C.L.E. offices—" She turned to Solo. "—so you're in worse shape than Kuryakin at the moment. Don't go wandering off, okay?"

"Unless we tell you to, of course," added Bai.

* * *

 _Assignment week one_

"Solo," the obvious person said into his communicator.

 _"'Ello, mate. In consideration of this being your first out-of-country adventure, the office thought you could do with a call from home."_

"Well, that's cute. How's things, Mark?"

 _"He's fine."_

Napoleon blinked at the communicator for a second before it registered that Slate had assumed he was actually asking after Illya. "I meant just in general, but that's good to know."

 _"Generally things are fine. Aside from all the being sad and lonesome since April's off in Connecticut and you're off in Brazil. And that's all me on the sad and all Illya on the lonesome."_

"How does that work out?"

 _"Generally, I moan and groan about having been abandoned by you and Dancer, and Kuryakin seems about normal except that he keeps lookin' like he expects to see you. Once I walked into a room and I swear to God, Polo, he fucking growled at me. He says he was clearing his throat, but I know when I aren't welcome."_

Before Napoleon could settle on being touched that the Russian actually missed him or feeling bad that the loneliness was profound enough that he was allowing Mark to notice it, Slate continued, _"And speaking of looking, you better look out. He's into the top five on the shooting range."_

"What?" After a moment of horror, Napoleon chuckled. "I think I must have misheard you, Mark. I thought for a second there that you said Illya—our delightful new friend with no firearms experience—had placed among the top five marksmen in the New York office."

 _"Yeah, I did, but he's not snagged your spot yet, so no worries, eh?"_

The vague sense of mortification returned. "I thought he said he'd never even fired a gun before."

 _"Well, all there's to do is point and fire. His aim's spot-on overall, so pulling a trigger don't exactly trip him up."_

"What place is he up to?" Napoleon asked, hoping that he'd be able to return home in short order to protect his spot in the rankings.

 _"Third."_

"What!"

 _"He's ranked third, chum. You're tops, then Wayside, the wunderkind, Alsaqri… and Bai rounds out the top slots. And in further Illya News—he gave permission for me to tell, so don't feel like I'm betraying a confidence."_

"…Okay."

 _"He's been prescribed an antidepressant. As he's admitted to a tendency toward dodging medication rather than taking it, I'm sort of the pill police. My wake-up call's a video text of him proving that he's taking the medicine."_

"So he's been doing what he should?"

 _"So far so good, Polo."_

"What about when he starts going into the field, though? If he's captured and needs medications—I mean, it would already be enough of a pain for him since the bread-and-water shtick is only fifty percent free of gluten…"

 _"Well, in that case the bread can't be helped. But the idea of getting anyone_ on _meds like this is to get them_ off _as soon as possible."_ Slate paused a moment. _"Did that sound weird?"_

"Only a little, Mark, if I squint."

" _I didn't mean it that way. Anyway. Ideally, the script will get him feeling a little better so he's more amenable to the talk therapy and, if all goes well, hopefully he can go pill-free by the time he's ready for field work. Illya's taking it alright, actually. He says even if he stays on the meds, it'll be extra incentive to not get captured."_

"I would think the entire enterprise of getting captured would be its own disincentive, but whatever works for him, I suppose."

Mark grunted. _"Anyways, speaking of getting captured, congratulations on not having been abducted as of right now."_

"Thank you."

" _Can you tell me how's things on your end?"_

"Only in vague terms."

" _How are things going, vaguely?"_

"Our misplaced coworkers have definitely been in the places we've been looking, but so far we haven't found them. Also, my Brazilian accent needs work. But at least the ladies from whom I've attempted to coax some information have been finding it charming rather than grotesque."

" _Lucky you. I'm British, so pretty much all my attempts at accents are doomed to fail. Grotesquely."_

"April's good with accents. Maybe if we're real nice to her she'll take pity on us and try to help."

" _There's not enough niceness in the world for the amount of help we need, Polo."_

* * *

 _Assignment week two_

"Open Channel S."

 _"Channel S open, puddin' pop."_

"You lied to me, Ger. I thought I was heading to the beach, not the jungle."

 _"A thousand apologies, applesauce. Since the majority of the population lives near the coast, I assumed things. Allow me to remediate my egregious error."_ Throat clearing. _"Brazil must be beautiful this time of year. All that mosquito repellant."_

"That's better. I rely on you for accuracy, you know."

 _"I try, babe, I try."_

"Think you could try checking my office, my dear?"

 _"Sure thing. Gimme a sec."_ About half a minute of silence. _"Mr. Kuryakin's the only one in. As to be expected at five a.m., I suppose, you sneak."_

"Sneak? You wound me."

" _You heard me. It's absolutely shameful, tying up an U.N.C.L.E. line to coo at your main squeeze."_ Gerry wheezed out an exaggeratedly dreamy sigh to ensure Napoleon didn't take the complaint as anything other than a joke. _"Ah, young love. Want me to patch y'in?"_

"That would be a delight, Gerry pie, but I was under the impression that our squeezing wasn't part of our character profiles."

 _"A few weeks back, you said you were taken. And when I notified you of your assignment, you seemed to take a suspiciously short time in getting Mr. Kuryakin into your bed chamber. So I drew some conclusions. Don't crush my hopes and dreams by saying you ain't U.N.C.L.E.'s up-and-coming power couple."_

"In the interest of claiming the honor of being fifty percent of a power couple, I'll let your dreams live."

A couple of clicking noises later, the secretary's rough voice was replaced by the smoother, English-accented tones of Solo's newest officemate.

 _"You managed to find Brazil?"_

Napoleon chuckled. "I think what you mean to say is, 'how are you finding Brazil?'"

 _"I should think I know what I mean, Mr. Solo."_

The American grinned at the joking tone. Well, Illya's desert-dry version of a joking tone. Given that he was at the office, it wasn't a surprise that the Russian was addressing him formally.

"This is my last shot at communicating with the wider world before I have to give up all control of communication to Bai and Wayside. We're going undercover for a bit."

 _"Ah. It is unthinkable that the world shall be deprived of such a font of wisdom."_

"Couldn't have put it better myself, Mr. Kuryakin. Now, what of you? Complying with doctors' orders?"

 _"I have been taking my medication but have been somewhat more active than I ought."_

"Well, good job on the first, and knock it off on the second. Don't make my last hurrah on the communicator be calling Slate to ask him to babysit you."

 _"Do try that, Mr. Solo. And then do me the great favor of returning in good health so that I can have the pleasure of ruining it."_

Napoleon laughed again.

 _"In any case, I have already been spending more time than usual with Mr. Slate, as you are away on assignment and Miss Dancer is away on vacation. He introduced me to a virtual reality simulator that we have been using to design an urban layout for our hypothetical socialist utopia."_

"Oh?" was all Solo could think to contribute.

 _"Yes. And on the same note, we may not need to have that 'The Talk' you mentioned, as the simulator appears to have covered that. Between the fireworks and implied acrobatics, I'm not sure I'm quite up to it."_

Napoleon frowned for a moment, then smirked. "You've been playing The Sims with Mark?"

 _"No. We have been taking advantage of a visual aid for our thought experiment."_ Pause. _"Although Mr. Slate may have gotten distracted once or twice. For several hours at a time."_

"Poor you."

 _"Yes. It should please you, though. Lingering at Mr. Slate's side to ensure he remembers to take bathroom breaks and hydrate himself occasionally is quite effective at minimizing the use of my knee."_

"Good. But I do hope you haven't been so irresponsible as to tie up the office computers in support of your, ah, visual aids."

 _"Of course not. As your personal computer has a generously-sized monitor, and as Mr. Slate claims our purpose is best supported by a larger screen, we have been experimenting at our residence. I had to bypass the password you use to lock your computer, of course."_

"Of course."

 _"And on the subject of our residence, I thought it might amuse you to learn that our neighbors have reached the conclusion that I am a Russian prince, and it has been quite the struggle to refrain from lobbing an extensive tome of history at their heads."_

Napoleon chuckled. "You must admit: despite their sad lack of awareness of the history of royalty within Russian borders, their conclusion isn't entirely bizarre."

 _"Of course it's not. They are rich people. They can afford to be eccentric rather than bizarre."_

"No. I mean that, given your chronic air of superiority, it's entirely reasonable for them to conclude you have royal roots."

 _"I do not put on airs, Mr. Solo."_

Napoleon took a moment to consider whether Illya was denying having an air of superiority, or if he was claiming that his superiority was self-evident enough that he did not have to flaunt it.

 _"In any case, do try to return. It would be terribly awkward for me to continue living on a permanent basis in your parents' apartment without you here as an intermediary."_

* * *

 _Assignment week three_

Jungle treks were highly overrated.

It was hot and humid and, just when you were thinking how you could really go for a drink right now, it would suddenly pour rain. Then it would stop raining and you'd take your damn drink of water but it wouldn't seem quite as appealing as it had back when you weren't soaking wet.

Then there were the bugs. Giant butterfly? Pretty neat. Swarms of ants? Less neat.

In short, Napoleon had come to the conclusion that he must've lost his luck back at the New York office, as he had gone from thinking he'd be going to Rio, to taking a twenty-seven-hour odyssey to Brasilia, to taking a three-hour mini odyssey to Manaus.

And also, he'd just decided he wasn't overly fond of rainforests. Actually, scratch that. Rainforests were awesome. They were just significantly awesomer when he himself wasn't situated within one of them, especially when Bai and Wayside seemed to have switched their assignment from _search-and-rescue_ to _let's-at-least-find-their-bodies_.

And especially, especially when they weren't actually, successfully finding bodies.

Or at least what remained of their bodies. They were pretty sure those were what remained of their bodies, at any rate, if the rather worse-for-wear fragments of an U.N.C.L.E. communicator between the late persons were anything to go by.

Bai shouldered off his backpack and produced a couple of sheets, handing one to Solo. The two male agents proceeded to cover their fallen comrades with the material as Wayside called for a recovery team to be sent out, preferably before the elements could have more of an effect on the remains.

* * *

When they returned to their hotel that evening, Bai started playing a Marx Brothers movie that he had downloaded to his tablet, then suggested they order in for dinner.

Wayside produced a deck of cards afterward and attempted to teach them how to play pinochle.

Solo got the impression that his seniors were actively trying to distract him from the gruesomeness of the day. He wasn't entirely opposed to those efforts and, between the old comedy and the convoluted complications of the card game, it actually worked.

Somewhere around Hour Three of Wayside's pinochle master class, Bai checked his phone and decided, "Time for lights out. Mr. Solo's made the most progress in comprehending this disaster, so we can declare him the winner and call it a day."

Wayside raised a finger. "One moment." She left and returned about ten moments later. "Solo."

Napoleon caught the thing Wayside had just chucked at his face. Recognizing the slightly crinkly paper wrapping the object, he grinned.

"Merry Belated Christmas. My gift to you is that I rewrapped it real nice."

Bai toed off his shoes and put in, "And my gift to you is that it looks like we have a good chance of returning home alive. Happy Holiday. I'm turning in, but you can keep the light on until you've finished opening and admiring your whatever-you've-got."

Solo thanked Wayside as she retreated to her room, bade Bai goodnight, and set to unwrapping his treasure from home—home, where they'd hopefully be heading in short order, as the mission seemed to be about as done as it could be.

He removed the paper to find a paperboard cube of a box, and inside that was a weird-looking Rubik's cube. The thing was clear, colored plastic, and a few of the sub-cubes were hollow. Looking through to the center, Napoleon could see there was something in the middle and that the goal was probably for him to line up the hollow cubes and let the thing in the center slide out.

Solo almost laughed at the analogy for his entire relationship with Kuryakin: there was a lot of work involved but, if you put in the effort, there was reward to be had. He wondered if Illya had thought of that as well, or if he'd simply thought Napoleon would like a bit of a challenge to prolong the gift-receiving process.

Well, that was something he could ask soon enough. For the time being, he set to the puzzle and was quite pleased with himself when the thingamabob in the middle slipped free about an hour later. It was a thin chain, tightly wound around a rolled-up slip of paper.

He unwound the chain first, noticed the different-shaped bits around it, and grinned. Morse code. After a couple of minutes of counting the ordered dots and dashes, he translated the message as ' _bawcock_ '.

' _Fine fellow_ ', in rather Shakespearean terms.

Solo decided that this was probably about the most saccharine thing that Illya would have considered himself capable of conveying, and accordingly hooked it around his neck with some pride.

He unfolded the note that had been wrapped in the chain.

" _Napoleon:_

 _My saying that you are my favorite person is not really saying much, considering there are not many people I like much at all. It is true nonetheless._

 _Merry Christmas,_

 _Cabbage_

 _P.S. I am aware that 'chou' means 'cabbage'. I'm not entirely sure why you would call me that, but it is superior to other terms you could use to refer to me, so do carry on using it."_

* * *

 _Early January, assignment debriefing_

"Well, Mr. Bai, Ms. Wayside, Mr. Solo, we appear to have covered everything." Waverly closed the file. "Ms. Wayside, Mr. Bai, you are dismissed."

Bai and Wayside stood, the former giving Solo a pat on the shoulder in the event that this detention indicated some kind of trouble for the rookie agent.

Waverly waited until the senior agents had left before saying, "Now, I'm afraid, I have some unhappy news to share with you, Mr. Solo. You disclosed that you and Mr. Kuryakin are quite close."

This sequence of sentences was not one that Solo particularly enjoyed, and he hoped that the use of "are" rather than "were" had not been a slip of the tongue. He couldn't resist attempting to expedite the old man's attempt at a delicate disclosure. "Is Mr. Kuryakin alright?"

"Mr. Kuryakin is handling matters as well as could be expected—"

Napoleon sighed quietly in relief. If Illya was handling anything, at the very least he was alive to handle it.

"—and he granted me permission to disclose the matter to you. There was an apartment fire at his parents' residence in Moscow. The structure collapsed. No survivors. As he is the only known relative of his late parents, Mr. Kuryakin left a week ago Monday to put their affairs in order."

Solo's back stiffened to prevent himself from slouching with the weight of what he'd just heard.

"You must, of course, prepare and submit your report but, once it is done, you may use the office phone to contact Mr. Kuryakin and, if you determine it to be necessary, arrange to join him in Moscow. He is due back on Friday, and you have more than enough vacation time to cover that period."

Words didn't emerge on his first attempt, what with the sudden dryness in his mouth, but on the second try he managed, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"If you decide to travel to Russia, Mr. Solo, do be aware that it is quite likely you'll be monitored. A certain few countries tend to take turns being distrustful of our organization, and the Russian Federation is having its go at the moment."

* * *

Napoleon tapped to his Contacts list, checked for Illya's number and plugged it into the desk phone, checking the time before entering the last digit.

Four p.m. in New York. Probably around midnight in Moscow so, given the upheaval in his circumstances, there was probably a good chance that Illya was still awake. While Kuryakin wasn't particularly fond of phone conversations, Solo needed to hear his voice. If he didn't answer… well, of course he'd resort to texting once he was out of the office, but it was harder to gage the Russian's emotional state via the written word. It was hard enough as it was using his voice plus facial expressions, let alone his voice only, and so a text would be infuriatingly inscrutable.

 _"Napoleon."_

"Illya, I just heard. I… I'm so sorry, Illya."

" _Whatever for?"_ The voice sounded just slightly off—just slightly less clear in its pronunciation than usual—but perhaps they had a poor connection. _"Assuming you did not slip into Russia for a spot of arson without notifying me, there is nothing for which you ought to be sorry."_

Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose. Now was certainly not the time to lose his cool, and impassioned speeches of any sort would be nothing if not counterproductive so, well aware that Illya was unlikely to respond honestly to a direct question in reference to his emotional state, the American set to using proxies of the yes-or-no-answer variety. "Have you been taking your medication?"

" _Yes."_ Just when Solo was about to move on, Kuryakin added, _"That is, except for this morning—well, last morning—I forgot, but I will remember next time—I mean, this time. The stroke of midnight is a difficult time to discuss yesterday and tomorrow, isn't it?"_

That much voluntary detail from the Russian was a likely indicator of honesty, so Napoleon proceeded with, "Have you been eating well?" Illya would know that by "well" he meant "according to a strict celiac-friendly diet".

" _As well as I am able. I even found a very nice gluten-free vodka."_

Solo controlled the breath he was tempted to suck in. Maybe the connection hadn't been so poor after all. He half-guessed, "Illya, don't tell me you're drunk."

" _Very well."_

"Illya, are you drunk?"

A soft harrumph. _"You just told me not to tell you that, but fine. Hold on a moment and I shall check."_ A few shuffling sounds later, his voice returned. _"Hmm… perhaps slightly."_

"How much have you had to drink?"

" _Within what timeframe?"_

"Oh, how about… two, three hours?"

Illya gave a drawn-out hum. When he did not proceed to follow that up with words, Napoleon prompted, "A lot?"

" _Define 'a lot'."_

"Let's say… a bottle?"

" _More than a lot."_

"You haven't been mixing your medication with vodka, have you?"

" _Of course not, Napoleon, I am not stupid. I lead a very well-ordered life. Medicine in the morning, business in the afternoon, vodka in the evening. Oh, and I eat when I remember to and shower and brush my teeth and all that, too. I can take care of myself,"_ he concluded in a wounded tone.

"Do you have any relatives—well," he cut himself off, remembering what Mr. Waverly had said, "family friends over there to help you?"

A scoff and then, dry as the Sahara, _"Of course I have, Napoleon. That's why an incompetent teenager is charged with sorting things out."_

"Do you want me to come?"

" _Your lack of Russian language capabilities would not make you terribly helpful. You would be bored."_

"I didn't ask if I'd be helpful or entertained," Solo rejoined gently. "I asked if you wanted me there."

" _You have more important things to do."_

"I'll be the judge of what I consider important, thank you." After several moments of silence, he added, "I'm hearing a resounding lack of a 'no'."

" _Hmm? Oh, I must be drunker than I thought. Hold on while I check. …Oh, wow."_

"Illya?"

Silence.

"Illya!"

" _Oh, hi, Napoleon. You've not hung up yet? This must be a very expensive call. Perhaps you should hang up. Or I could."_

"I'll be there as soon as I can, mon chou. Good night."

* * *

"Open Channel S."

 _"Channel S open, Mr. Kuryakin."_

"Gerry, I just spoke with Mr. Solo. Is he—"

 _"He's booked on a flight to Sheremetyevo International Airport, arriving at ten thirty-seven a.m., your time, sir."_

Illya glanced at the time on his phone.

An hour.

Napoleon would be in Moscow in one hour.

In the desperate hope that Solo had a tiny little hop of a connecting flight from Wherever to Moscow and could be somehow deterred from making that last connection, Illya suggested, "I don't suppose you could—"

 _"Could have. Did not. Will not. He's got vacation time. If he wants to take a sudden trip to beautiful downtown Moscow, who am I to stop him?"_

Illya sighed deeply. "I always knew you liked him better than you like me."

 _"I like you enough to not want you out there alone right now, sir."_

"I am perfectly—"

 _"Yeah, yeah, you're a tough cookie and you could manage okay, but there's nothing wrong with wanting to be better than okay, is there, Mr. Kuryakin?"_

"Buttinski."

 _"Anything else, sir?"_

"No."

 _"Tchüss."_

* * *

Safely arrived in Moscow, Napoleon glanced to the side, at the small crowd of drivers holding signs. Some were in Cyrillic, one in Chinese, and the rest used the familiar Roman alphabet: Johnson, Montclair, Elliot, Idiot—

He stopped and blinked at the last one, then raised his eyes from the sign to its bearer. As his gaze met the blue-eyed glare, he broke into a grin and strode over, declaring, "Nice of you to label yourself."

"Have you any bags to claim?"

"Just the one."

When Napoleon made as if to scoop him up, Illya took a large step backwards and hardened his already icy expression. "Then we can go now." He crumpled the paper sign as he walked, dropping it into a trash receptacle without breaking his stride.

Napoleon picked up his pace and, once he'd managed to take his place at the shorter man's side, asked, "Can't you slow down long enough for me to greet you properly?"

No response, unless you counted the brief, sharp intake of breath through teeth. Solo took that as a bad sign and kept quiet for a while. Once outside the building, and once they'd walked a couple of blocks, however, he couldn't resist saying tentatively, "May I ask where we are going?"

"To the car, then to the hotel. Acceptable?"

"Uh, yes."

"Did you book yourself a room somewhere?"

"Uh, no. I assumed I'd bunk with you, but I can—"

"No need."

After letting a few more moments pass in silence, he pressed in a conversational tone, "Rental car?"

Illya ground his teeth. "No, Napoleon, not a rental. As you are aware, that would require a valid driver's license and, as you are also aware, I have only an American learner's permit. It was my mother's car."

Napoleon hummed. "I don't suppose you'd be amenable to the idea of my driving us to the hotel."

"Seeing as you always do as you see fit regardless of how amenable I may or may not be—"

"Whoa there, partner. I don't think I'm quite the bossy-pants you're making me out to be."

Illya's hands clenched into fists, but he kept walking. "You are here against my wishes."

"One time does not amount to 'always', chou." He reached up to put a hand on the blond's shoulder and was only slightly surprised when it was slapped away. It was more the sharpness of the blow than the action itself that startled him.

"I did not mean to hit you so hard. I apologize. We will talk in the car," Kuryakin all but growled.

Solo took that as meaning to shut up until they got to the vehicle, and it was fortunately only one more block before they got there. After depositing the American's bag in the trunk, Illya unlocked the driver's side door and made a brief gesture for Napoleon to take the seat at the wheel, then walked round to the other side to let himself into the passenger seat.

As soon as the doors were locked, Illya fixed his gaze through the windshield, speaking quickly and quietly in a voice almost shaking with anger. "We are _not_ in New York, you will _not_ call me pet names, you will _not_ touch me in public, you will _not_ act the part of anything but a friend." He reached over and put the key in the ignition but did not start the engine.

"Illya—"

"We are in Russia. I am, in a way, a representative of the country, through athletics previously and now through doctoral research abroad and joining the U.N.C.L.E. Perhaps I am paranoid, but I would prefer a measure of caution now rather than to find in future that my association with you has been noticed and recorded by government authorities." He finally looked at the driver with something other than a scowl—something that tended toward distress. "If they see more than friendship, it would not make for a flattering record, Napoleon."

Napoleon nodded slowly. "Okay… but do friends not hug in Russia?"

" _I_ do not hug friends anywhere. It would seem odd if I made you the exception."

"Even given the circumstances?"

"We are in Russia," Illya repeated, turning his face back to the windshield with a furrowed brow. "We are, as you might say, on my turf, and you are here against my wishes. You follow my rules or I'll have you arrested for a stalker."

Napoleon tightened his jaw to keep it from dropping. While Mr. Waverly's warning about Russia's less than welcoming attitude toward U.N.C.L.E. offered some justification for Kuryakin's anxiety, Solo couldn't help but feel his boyfriend's response was more than slightly extreme. "You can't be serious."

"You are free to test that theory."

The brunet took a steadying breath, reminding himself that Illya had just lost his parents, was just barely getting comfortable with dating a man in a liberal city, and did not have an entirely unjustified fear of same-sex PDA in a more conservative locale, U.N.C.L.E. or no U.N.C.L.E. While Napoleon had been (and still was) pretty sure that Illya actually did want a little company at this time, he couldn't be sure of that.

Solo smiled slightly. "Okay. Your rules. If I'm good, will you spring for a handshake sometime?"

Kuryakin closed his eyes. "I am aware that I sound unreasonable, and that you are being kind only to be met by my snapping your head off." Open again. "You have had a long flight, and I thank you for your going to the trouble of making the journey. We can talk more at the hotel."

"Okay."

The drive was mostly quiet aside from Illya's directions and, upon alighting from the vehicle, Napoleon was a bit surprised that the Russian withdrew his own suitcase as well as the American's from the trunk.

"I thought you were already staying here," Solo commented as he took his bag and they entered the building. "You don't leave your things in the room?"

"I had a room with a single bed, as I was not expecting you. I asked the hotel to switch me to a room with two beds before I went to pick you up. Hopefully they have one available."

Illya turned away from him then and exchanged a few words with the receptionist, who fiddled with her computer for a few moments before nodding and handing a keycard to the blond. "Spasibo." Back to Napoleon. "We have a room with an adequate number of beds. Come."

Solo tipped an imaginary hat at the receptionist, echoed his boyfriend's expression of polite gratitude, and followed along… to the stairwell. Most people in that scenario would assume this meant they were one or, at most, two floors up. Napoleon, however, knew that Illya's aversion to elevators was a strong one.

"How much do I need to psych myself up?"

"Six."

"That's not so bad." Considering Kuryakin had reported climbing as many as twenty stories by foot in the interest of avoiding the "damned death box"… yes, six was perfectly tolerable.

The room turned out to be equally tolerable: two precisely-made beds with thin comforters, a small dresser with a small television atop it, a desk with a chair, one door opened to a tiny closet with hangers, another door opened to a bathroom that could most accurately be described as antiseptic. Some light came in through a tall but narrow window with a flimsy sheath of gray fabric shielding it, and it reminded Napoleon of nothing so much as an opening in a castle wall through which an archer might fire his weapon.

"I think I've been to hospitals that look more hospitable," Solo commented, "but it's certainly clean."

Illya hefted his bag onto one of the beds and, as he started to sweep the area for bugs, responded in a clipped voice, "If you care to ring the Ritz Carlton—"

"Clean is good." Napoleon left his own case on the other bed and slipped into the bathroom to secure that part of the space before returning to help with the rest of the small bedroom. They nodded at each other—all clear.

As Napoleon set to putting his few garments of clothing in one of the dresser drawers, he offered, "Been making satisfactory progress?"

"Yes. My parents were not materialistic to begin with, and most of their belongings were destroyed in the fire. There were some documents deposited at the bank and I dealt with those first. Since then I have mostly been sorting through their offices. I shall keep some of the books, donate others, sell or otherwise dispose of other items, and finish off an academic paper my father had almost completed—perhaps it can be published posthumously in his name. I've arranged for my mother's car to be sold the day after tomorrow."

Napoleon hummed. "Sounds like you're almost ready to wrap things up."

Illya shoved his own suitcase up against the foot of his bed, apparently calling it a day on the unpacking front. "I took two weeks off to resolve matters, and my estimate appears to have been a good one."

The American shook his head. "You're amazing."

Illya frowned. "For having a good sense of timing?"

"Given the circumstances—"

"The circumstances are nothing remarkable. My parents were appreciably older than I. It was always more likely that they would pass on before I. It is unsurprising and almost inevitable that I should be faced with this task."

"I know. But if my parents… passed on suddenly, I'd be a mess."

"I sincerely doubt that, my friend. People often take on such responsibilities with more aplomb than they consider themselves capable of."

Illya moved to the narrow window and pulled aside the gossamer curtain, letting a bit more light streak through. The sun glinted off his hand, and for the first time Napoleon noticed the ring on his third finger, commenting accordingly, "Get hitched while I was out of town?"

The blond turned around again to look at his roomie. He shook his head, frowning slightly.

"Where'd you get the ring?" Napoleon amended.

Comprehension dawned. "Ah. It was my father's. He kept his wedding ring in a safe deposit box. My mother wore hers, so it is welded to her finger for all eternity, or at least until the organic remains decay, leaving behind an unrecognizable mass of metal and ash in the landfill—they have a terrible landfill problem here in Moscow, you know—did I not say something about this?"

Napoleon sighed out an affirmation but did not terminate the embrace he'd initiated when the Russian had started in on his commentary on waste disposal issues. "Maybe you don't need a hug but I do."

"It is touching that you are so emotionally invested in the environmental health of this glorious metropolis." He stiffly patted at the American's shoulder. "I… appreciate your empathy. Would my saying 'there, there' be at all helpful to you?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner."

"I'm not. When you're around, I sometimes want to tell you things. When I talk, I have to think. I have been trying very hard not to think."

For a moment, Napoleon thought Illya was going to return the embrace, but the blond suddenly broke away and strode to his suitcase, unzipping it and withdrawing a bottle. He headed to the bathroom and returned with one of the tooth glasses, so Solo burst out, "Whoa, whoa there!"

Kuryakin blinked at him. "Shall I get a glass for you, too?"

"No, you…." Napoleon had been about to comment that Illya had felt bonier than the last time they'd embraced, then thought better of it. Even though they hadn't found any signs of surveillance in the room, he knew Illya preferred to err on the side of caution, so he said, "Your clothes seem looser than I remember."

Another blink, then Illya transferred the glass to the same hand as the bottle and used his newly free appendage to tug at his waistband. He harrumphed a bit. "You seem to recall correctly."

"When was the last time you ate?"

Illya shrugged and plonked the glass onto the desk. "I've been eating."

Napoleon scooped the bottle away. "That wasn't the question, my friend."

The Russian turned to look at the clock on the nightstand between the twin beds. "Twenty-five hours ago. I had some leftover falafel that I'd picked up the day before. It was quite good—you'd probably like it." He grabbed the bottle back and started to open it.

"How about you show me? I, for one, am starving."

"Very well." Illya reclosed the vessel, half-dropped it to a spot beside the glass, and started for the door.

* * *

That night, as Illya drifted off after a long day of being distracted from grabbing the vodka bottle, Napoleon stared at the ceiling. He was still in a different time zone and, to top it off, was now deeply regretting that nap he'd taken on the long-haul flight out from New York. Soon, though, he became somewhat less regretful, as his roommate's sleep became less peaceful.

While he'd been told through his U.N.C.L.E. training not to disturb someone having a night terror, Solo eventually decided that waking the violently twisting Russian was preferable to letting him roll off the bed and potentially concuss himself on the nightstand. He slid off the mattress, turned on the nightstand lamp, and covered the space between the beds in one quick step, effectively blocking Illya's path from bed to floor as he whispered loudly, "Hey there, comrade—Illya, wake up—Illya—"

The blond jolted upright and Napoleon jerked himself back to evade the fist that swung around.

"You were dreaming," Napoleon offered, faced with wide blue eyes and a half-open mouth.

Illya shook his head slowly as his eyes darted around the room. "No… no, I—thought I was but…" He offered a humorless smile. "…but here we are."

"Have you had nightmares every night since you were notified?"

Another shake of the head. "Before I left New York, I was fine. Since I've been in Russia, every night I've drunk until I passed out. I slept through the night every time."

"In that case, I'm glad I came—if only to give your liver the night off." Napoleon gingerly took a seat at the edge of the younger man's bed and asked, "Did you want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

"Anything, I guess. I know you don't like talking about anything as impractical as feelings any more than you can help but—"

Illya dropped back down and tilted his head back until he was able to glare more or less comfortably at the headboard. "It would be pointless, anyway. I do not know what I feel. Or what I _should_ feel."

"There are very few 'shoulds' when it comes to emotions, my friend."

Illya lifted his head enough to peer down his nose at the American. "Have you been talking to Dr. Boateng?"

"No, but hey: if I'm saying the same thing as your psychiatrist, there must be something to it."

A grunt, and Illya's head hit the pillow again.

"What do you feel?"

A humming sound. "Irritated."

"At who or what?"

"You—no, me—well, both. I don't want to talk, Napoleon. I find it annoying when you try to get me to talk about deeply personal matters, and I am angry with myself for not being more capable of… sharing."

Napoleon let out a quiet breath. "I don't mean to be pushy. I just want to make sure you know I'm here for you and ready to listen if you need an ear before we get back to New York." He was just about to get up and return to his own bed when Illya stretched out the arm nearest him, palm up. A few wiggles of his fingers prompted Napoleon to take the hand and give it a light squeeze.

"Why on earth do you put up with me?" Illya sighed.

"I have a thing for blonds," he quipped.

"And redheads and brunettes and—"

"You." He squeezed the hand again. "We swept the room for bugs. It's clean. I won't say this again until we get back to New York but I, as you say, 'put up with you' because I love you. And you know I mean that since I went out with a lot of other people before I met you and—you must understand that I mean this in the lovingest way possible, mon chou," he warned.

Illya looked at him with the silent question of _mean what?_

"I wouldn't have half the patience for them as I have for you. With them, it was one or two dates, some fun in the bedroom, and goodbye. We never had any deep conversations and I would not have cared to take that plunge. With you… I'm willing to take the plunge, but I'm also willing to wait."

"And if I am never willing to… plunge?"

Napoleon shrugged with half a smile. "Then I'll do a lot of waiting, I guess."

"You shouldn't."

"Didn't we just go over something about shoulds and shouldn'ts?"

Illya screwed his mouth to the side. "Perhaps I could dip only one or two toes in."

Not entirely sure what was meant by that statement but not wanting to discourage whatever it was, Napoleon simply murmured, "Okay."

"They… they never said it to me. What you said."

A quick mental replay later, Solo came up empty and prompted with an apologetic expression, "Who never said which part of what I said?"

"The—I—" Kuryakin put his free hand over his mouth. His brow furrowed. After a few moments he removed the hand and said quietly, "My parents. Never said. They loved me."

"Never?"

A quick shake of the head.

"Maybe they were like you. It was hard for them to say certain things." He rubbed a thumb along the back of Illya's hand. "I'm sure they loved you, Illya. Very, very much."

A rather skeptical expression. "I'm not so sure they did. I'm not so sure I loved them, either, for that matter." He paused. "That is how I feel. And I know that is not how I should feel."

Napoleon started playing with the fingers of the hand he held. "Well, sometimes when people pass away…"

"No, Napoleon, it is not a grief reaction. I've spoken with Dr. Boateng about this, before the fire."

Since Illya was bringing this up himself, he urged, "And what did the good doctor say?"

"That affection between family was not a given. Based on different circumstances and based on my family's history of psychological… conditions, it can be unsurprising that some people find it harder than others to build and maintain family bonds."

Napoleon nodded. "And you have been living apart from them for several years, right? I imagine that can't have been helpful in building and maintenance."

That at least got a brief laugh from the Russian. "You make it sound like a construction business. Actually, you've made it worse."

Solo raised his eyebrows.

"Before you, I spent very little time in the company of anyone but myself." His tone turned mildly accusatory. "You make me feel things, which made my feelings toward my parents seem like nothing in comparison."

"Well… I should hope you don't feel exactly toward me as you would feel toward a parent…"

His expression grew exasperated. "I _know_. Of _course_ they are not exactly the same feelings. But… the levels of intensity are so different it made me wonder if I felt enough of anything toward Mama and Papa." The look of disdain fell from his features, leaving confusion in its wake. "Why am I saying all this? Napoleon… this is not right."

"What isn't right?"

"I—I shouldn't tell you these things. I mean, perhaps I should, but I would never—why am I telling you…?"

"Oh." Napoleon blinked several times. "Do you think you were given something? A truth serum of some sort?"

"No, but I've not been anticipating an attack of that variety. If someone were particularly devoted to the idea of drugging me, they'd likely have managed to do so."

Solo gave a delicate experimental sniff. A very mild lemony scent met his nostrils, but it was slight enough that it could have been hotel cleaning chemicals that he'd not noticed earlier. He got up and glanced around, gaze quickly falling on the bottom of the door leading to the corridor. There should have been a sliver of light filtering in from the hallway lighting, but instead there was a soft glow from the middle of the strip between door and floor, along with a bit of mist filtering into the hotel room.

"I think… we're in trouble."

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh, look, I figured out how cliffhangers work. Rather a dully-written cliffhanger, but it counts, right?

The non-Gershwin song in the chapter title is Metallica's "Enter Sandman".

Thanks so much for reading—it's always a treat when someone reads past the first chapter, :)


	3. Act III: Merry Andrew

**A/N** : Why, yes. Yes, I did recently watch "The Ultimate Computer Affair" and get 'Hatikvah' stuck in my head for a week afterward.

Also, I just realized there's at least one currently living person I've heard of who's named Rufus, so I belatedly apologize to all Rufuses (Rufus? Rufus's? Rufii? Any Rufus pluralization experts out there?) for the Rufus-ribbing of the first chapter, :)

Finally, there are some bits where I'm not sure where I stashed the "humor" part of this chapter. I tried but, in any case, I guess you can have a chuckle at the melodramatics instead. :)

Chapter **warnings** : mentions of character deaths (OCs only); mentions of torture; self-inflicted injury (including blood)

* * *

 **Act III** : Merry Andrew/I'm Going Slightly Mad

For a moment, Napoleon thought he must have fallen asleep in his Manhattan living room with its wall of windows and woken up in the sunshiny aftermath of a snowstorm, as everything was so blindingly white.

Then he recalled that he had not fallen asleep at home, but in a minimally-windowed Moscow hotel room, and that snow had not been in the forecast. So maybe he had actually gone blind.

Then he recalled that he'd fallen asleep soon after noticing a mysterious gas filtering into the hotel room, and he also realized that he could see his own feet, so he decided that he wasn't blind after all. Which was sort of a relief, since if being blind entailed living in a brilliant white room all the time, he'd have been in for a lifetime of terrible headaches. (Also, he kind of liked his twenty-twenty vision). As it was, he still had a humdinger of a pounding head, but hopefully that was only a short-term side effect of the knockout gas.

Meanwhile, he still had no idea where he was, so it was about time he did the rise-and-shine routine and tried to figure that out.

First, he assessed himself, patting quickly from head to toe and finding that he was in no way bound, was still attired in his sleepwear, and had been allowed to keep the necklace Illya had given him for Christmas, as his captors had presumably judged it too flimsy to pose much of a threat. The handgun he usually kept holstered at his ankle was gone, however, and so was his U.N.C.L.E. communicator.

Looking down, he noted that he was on a tightly-drawn stretch of canvas.

Looking up, he noted that he was on the lower part of a gray metal bunk bed.

The double-decker bed was pushed up against one of the white-painted steel-plate walls of a ten-by-ten-foot room. At the side opposite the bunks was a metal toilet-and-sink set like the ones he'd seen in prison documentaries; a bottle of mouthwash was perched at one edge of the sink and a bar of soap at the opposite edge. A narrow metal table and matching stools were bolted to the floor, near the wall between the bunk beds and the pseudo-bathroom.

Solo got up (very slowly in consideration of the ongoing protest searing through his brain) and scanned the walls again in search of a door. After an embarrassingly long period of squinting at the edges of the metal panels riveted together, he concluded that one of the bumps between panels was a hinge, and that the panel with the barely-visible rectangular outlines etched into it was a door with a couple of slots that were currently closed off.

He peered up at the ceiling, squinting harder than ever, as almost the entire thing was made up of fluorescent lighting. The only unlit spots was what looked like a couple of drains on the ceiling, which Solo figured were probably speakers for an intercom system or some form of ventilation.

Turning back to the bunk bed, there was Illya on the top bunk. Still knocked out. Napoleon reached up and shook his shoulder. The blond head sort of lolled to one side, but a few moments of watching for the rise and fall of his chest confirmed that he was asleep, not dead. Given the bed and toilet facilities, Napoleon decided that they were both likely to remain not-dead for a little while.

At least, that was what he wanted to believe, so he decided to believe it until he had some reason to believe otherwise.

After another failed effort to awaken Kuryakin, Solo slowly made a couple of laps around the room, feeling at rivets and pushing lightly at the walls, spending an extra few moments poking and prodding around what he was fairly certain was the door. The presumed door remained unmoved, however, and the panels outlined in the larger door-panel stayed similarly still, no matter what direction he attempted to slide or shove them in.

He availed himself of the toilet, washed his hands, and returned for another go at rousting his cellmate. Just as he reached the bunk, a piercing trio of beeps rang through the room, and the door panel slowly started to swivel open.

Solo clambered up and half-hid himself behind the slumbering Russian, watching as a man in a black T.H.R.U.S.H. uniform came through, glanced around, and exclaimed in a thick Eastern European accent, "Adam, American is gone!"

As soon as the guard turned around, Solo repositioned himself and, upon catching sight of another guard (presumably Adam), he leapt from the top bunk, bringing both men with him as he dropped to the ground. They tussled on the floor in a flash of seconds and Napoleon reached for Adam's gun a couple of times, in the process catching a glimpse of the space beyond the blindingly white cube: a fairly typical guards' room with small appliances, a weapons cabinet, a few spare bits of furniture, and some electronic equipment.

In the end, the first guard whacked Solo in the head just hard enough to daze him, and Adam took that opportunity to step away and aim the gun at the American.

"Idiot, Oleg," Adam scolded in a less-dense accent similar to Oleg's. "Going in without a gun."

"I had the stick," Oleg protested as he retreated from the cell.

"Neither nightstick nor gun will protect you from idiocy, Oleg, but at least present yourself better. And you," Adam addressed Napoleon, "you take it easy, no? If you are nice, you get to go home, you got it?"

Napoleon smiled. "Ah… yes. I got it. Thanks."

"Good. You stay here nicely and we will bring food soon."

"Ooh, room service, eh? I always loved room service. Think I could get a pair of sunglasses, too? It's a smidge bit dazzling in here."

"Eyelids are nature's sunglasses." Adam jerked his chin a bit. "Get back from the door."

Napoleon scuttled back until he was leaning against the table leg opposite the door, and at that point Adam backed out, a single beep sounded, and the door swung shut. The American rubbed at his head and glanced back up to the top bunk, almost doing a double take as his gaze was met by a familiar set of blue eyes.

"Enjoying the show, Sleeping Beauty?" Solo offered drily.

"If you are implying I should have intervened…." Kuryakin trailed off with a yawn and a wince that occurred almost simultaneously. He rubbed at his temples with the heels of his palms before trying again. "Given that I awoke mere seconds ago to find you on the floor of an unfamiliar room with a gun in your face, the prudency of my leaping into action seemed questionable at best."

Napoleon got to his feet with a bit of effort.

"Your leaping into action also seems to have been questionable at best."

"There was indeed a questionable leap, partner."

Illya glanced up at the intense overhead lighting and rolled onto his stomach to keep his face in the opposite direction from the blinding illumination. "Have you any idea where we might be?" he asked, cradling his head in his arms.

"Well—" Napoleon made a show of casting a few looks about the room. "—I'd say all signs point to this being an evil lair."

"Whose and where?"

"Based on the guards' uniforms and accents and the creatively unwelcoming accommodations, my best guess would be a T.H.R.U.S.H. holding cell in Eastern Europe. If there's one positive thing to be said about T.H.R.U.S.H., it's that they usually hire local."

"You think we may still be in Russia?"

"If Oleg and Adam could be Russian names."

"They can be, but they are not exclusively Russian." The corners of Illya's mouth quirked up briefly. "On another note, you seem to encounter trouble most frequently in your pajamas: first in New York with Angelique and Dr. Egret, and now here. Is this an ironic extension of your popularity with the ladies, that you should run into difficulties while garbed in your bedclothes?"

"I seldom have difficulties involving bedclothes and ladies, I'll have you know, but I'm glad you're in high enough spirits to make an effort at such insinuations." He pulled the chain out from under his collar and gave it a light tug. "They also let me keep this."

Now Illya looked just about on the verge of all-out smiling. "You've been wearing it, then. How long did you need for the Rubik's cube?"

"An hour."

Illya gave a hum of approval. "Not bad."

"Smiling and giving compliments? Damn but you're in a good mood."

"I am taking a page from your book and attempting to be optimistic. I can only assume that plotting a jail break will be a more productive distraction than drinking myself into a stupor."

A crackling sound from above drew their attention, and a voice from the speaker offered, _"Greetings."_

"Is your speaker placement intended to evoke an equation of yourself with some higher being?" Illya asked the ceiling.

 _"I hadn't thought of it that way, but feel free to deify me if you'd be so inclined. In any case, gentlemen, it's good to have you among the awake."_

Figuring he might as well get the stupid questions out of the way, Napoleon returned, "Why, thank you. Might we know the name of our new deity?"

 _"You certainly might. Andrew Park? Perhaps you've heard my name spoken within your company in a tone of some trepidation? Fear? Loathing?"_

"I have not," Illya said flatly.

"Hmm… I've vaguely heard of a Mr. Park whom U.N.C.L.E. may have irritated at some point."

 _"Irri—oh, this goes beyond irritation, Mr. Solo. I wouldn't be going to all this trouble out of irritation. A little yoga, a walk in the woods—that would resolve my irritation. I don't bother kidnapping or killing out of irritation. Not even kidnapping or killing U.N.C.L.E. agents."_

"How reassuring," Illya commented.

 _"Anyway, if you've not heard of me, maybe you've heard of a small business I used to run. The Aristophanes Corporation? Any memories springing forth, Mr. Solo?"_ A throat clearing, then a more emphatic, _"Mr. Kuryakin?"_

Napoleon shrugged, "I've got nothing," as Illya declared, "I've got something," so the American asked, "You do?"

"It was a chemical company based in a more remote part of Arizona," the Russian supplied, "which manufactured things such as oil dispersants legally, but which also manufactured chemical weapons. I hacked into company documents providing evidence of their less legal operations and made them available online. Andrew Park's name turned up several times, but I never heard anyone with U.N.C.L.E. talk about Park or Aristophanes."

 _"And…?"_

"…and the corporation has since been shut down. Based on your apparent animus toward U.N.C.L.E. as a whole as opposed to me alone, I assume that organization played a more significant role in its closure."

 _"Yes, indeed. I can forgive your exuberantly misguided youthful ideals, Mr. Kuryakin, but U.N.C.L.E. made me feel downright persecuted."_

Rather than pointing out that—well—that was an inevitable side effect of The Good Guys' actions when it came to stymying the efforts of The Bad Guys, Napoleon guessed, "So you're upset that U.N.C.L.E. shut down your… facility, Mr. Park?"

 _"Not_ my _facility, Solo. A T.H.R.U.S.H. facility. If it were_ my _facility, we'd have had better security and would still be in operation."_

"Well, it's good to know you've found a new enterprise to occupy your hours, Mr. Park. Where might we be running our, ah, fledgling kidnapping business?"

 _"Here, of course. Unfortunately, I cannot provide details."_

"Pity."

 _"I'm still working out the kinks, of course."_

Settling into the tried-and-true tactic of _keep 'em talking_ , Napoleon commented, "Kinks? By gosh, Mr. Park, you seem to have gotten us in here just fine. What seems to have been the problem?"

 _"Of course it worked, Mr. Solo, but it could have been less clumsy. I used a new knockout concoction on you gentlemen—a two-step process. First, pump in an odorless chemical that relaxes the mind, promotes sense of wellbeing. Once that has taken effect, start adding in a more perfumed component that induces unconsciousness."_

A despondent sigh. _"Instead, Mr. Kuryakin became relaxed, then concerned about being relaxed, and Mr. Solo was too alert to be relaxed about Mr. Kuryakin's being concerned about being relaxed—I suppose I should have considered that the appropriate dose might vary by person. At least we managed to pump in enough of the knockout component fast enough that you fell asleep before you could break out of the room, and you managed to make it out here notwithstanding."_

Illya rolled his eyes at Park's amateurish mistake and offered crisply, "Our deepest apologies for inconveniencing you. One hopes you were at least slightly amused by the relaxed-concerned-relaxed-alert-relaxed-concerned-relaxed incident."

Napoleon mentally reran Park's recent speech, then silently congratulated Illya on getting the assorted 'relaxeds' and 'concerneds' and such in the right order.

 _"Oh, I wasn't monitoring that. Monitoring is for plebeians. Oleg reported to me, and he mentioned that the way you spoke to each other sounded like you gentlemen are quite close. All the better for retaining your cooperation."_

Napoleon shared a glance with his cellmate (Just how close did Park think they were?) and asked, "Out of idle curiosity—I understand that monitoring is for the plebes, but do you know how the monitoring device was… installed?"

 _"Yes, indeed, and you were very helpful in that regard, Mr. Solo."_

Solo automatically grimaced and Kuryakin automatically raised a questioning brow at his American companion. "Well, I, uh, always try to make myself useful but, ah… in what way was I of service, Mr. Park?"

 _"Perhaps you remember a scintillating siren you met in Brasilia, Mr. Solo? One Fatima Ferreira who directed the attention of you and yours toward Manaus?"_

Kuryakin's brow arched higher and Solo's grimace deepened. "Yes, I believe I do recall a young lady of that name."

 _"While you were still out and about on your little information-gathering excursion, Senhorita Ferreira made a quick stop in your hotel room and affixed a microphone to your suitcase, which we activated when Oleg and Adam went over to prep you gentlemen for pickup."_ Park sighed. _"Ah, I love it when a plan comes together."_

Solo considered arguing against this besmirching of A-Team taglines, but instead decided it would be more productive to ask, "Would you care to monologue about what plan that might be?"

 _"I demolished an apartment building, and that brought out Kuryakin, and Kuryakin brought out Solo, and now I have bait!"_

The eyebrow that Kuryakin had been directing toward Solo dropped, and the rest of him dropped from the top bunk to the floor to allow him to glare squarely at the speaker embedded amongst the lighting fixtures. "You murdered everyone in a building to bring me to Russia?"

 _"I assume you'd not have responded if I invited you over for tea. Especially since we met before, and I made rather a poor first impression."_

The pair exchanged a look, and Napoleon offered tentatively, "You aren't Angelique using a voice-disguising device, are you?"

 _"Ew, no! Leave that contemptuous compendium of codswallop out of this! Mr. Kuryakin, I, uh, believe I might have chased you around a tree."_

Kuryakin flatly informed Solo, "He was the drunken slob who mistook me for a prostitute at the conference in South Korea."

 _"I was not a slob and I thought you were a girl."_

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

 _"Well, yeah—"_

"So you either have a horrendously low esteem for the female of the species, or you assume I have an overly delicate sense of my own masculinity. According to Freudian psychology, that means you are unnaturally attracted to your mother." He muttered in an undertone to Solo, "Then again, pretty much everything works its way 'round to an oedipal complex in Freudian psychology."

 _"Leave my mother out of this!"_

Kuryakin raised his voice again to address the ceiling. "I would if you'd been kind enough to do the same—which reminds me: could we return to the issue of mass murder?"

" _No, we cannot! You're my prisoners in my holding cell and we'll talk about what I want to talk about!"_

Napoleon shrugged and said to his cellmate, "His turf, his rules."

"Could we wait until we are no longer in this madman's clutches before you throw my insensitive remarks back in my face?"

"I wasn't throw—"

" _I hate to interrupt a good catfight, but need I remind you that I am in charge here?"_

"Apparently yes," Solo returned, settling himself onto his bunk. "So, Mr. Large-and-in-charge, what did you want to talk about?"

 _"Do you know if Gershwin Ogola is still with U.N.C.L.E.?"_

"I can honestly say that I have no idea what you're talking about."

 _"Petite person of color? Probably thirty-something? Probably some—"_ A merry chuckle. _"—disfigurements?"_

"Sounds like the kind of fella I'd remember meeting."

 _"But you don't remember."_

"Can't say I do. Illya, can you help this gentleman out?"

"Out what? A window? It would be my pleasure."

"That sounds like a no. Sorry, mister."

 _"Hmph. Never mind. Adam, would you return Mr. Solo's communicator to him?"_ One of the slots in the door slid open, the device dropped to the floor, and the slot was slapped shut again. _"The walls are equipped to block all radio signals at the push of a button, so I can cut you off at any time. Call your office and ask for Gershwin Ogola to be sent over here. Once he's in my possession, you two will go free."_

Napoleon sighed. "Aw, but I'm on vacation. What if I don't wanna call in to work?"

 _"Then I'm sure I could come up with some unpleasant way to keep Mr. Kuryakin entertained until you come to your senses. Perhaps you'll even join him—you're not the only young folks U.N.C.L.E. has recruited, you know. I've already, let us say, made the acquaintance of Murgatroyd and Jamison. They stupidly opted to destroy their communicators rather than making the call for me."_

Solo and Kuryakin shared a glance.

" _You can do the same, of course. I have plenty of other options. Let's see, next on my list are…"_ He spoke slowly, as if reading the names for the first time. _"…April Dancer and Mark Slate. They're also from the New York office, it seems. Friends of yours, maybe?"_

Napoleon sighed again, but this time he also trudged over to the communicator on the floor, noting a couple of unfamiliar dots covering parts of the speaker and receiver. "You'll be listening in, I take it?"

 _"I'm not stupid, Mr. Solo."_

"Open Channel S."

The communicator made an uncharacteristic crackling noise before a voice rasped, _**"Channel S open, babe."**_

"You're a sight for sore ears, Gerry."

 _"Gerry? Gerry with a 'G'?"_

 _ **"I know I'm always a few steps behind the latest trends, but when did party lines come back into vogue?"**_

"Sorry, Ger, but Illya and I had a rather abrupt change in accommodation. The other voice is our charismatic host. Andrew Park, this is Gerry, a secretary on the graveyard shift."

 _ **"Displeased to meet you, I'm sure, Mr. Park."**_

 _"Gerry who?"_ Park insisted. _"Gershwin? Gershwin Ogola?"_

 _ **"Well, now, most people would guess Gerald or Geraldine. Soft 'G' and all that."**_

 _"Gershwin Ogola? You're a secretary?"_

 _ **"You're an asshole—heh, I mean… please be nice to our boys, dear sir."**_

 _"Oh, I have no need to be mean to them, I assure you. I'm ready and willing and wanting to let them go unharmed."_

 _ **"By gosh, that was easy! Gee, they oughtta let me handle every hostage negotiation."**_

 _"I want you, Agent Ogola."_

 _ **"Will you at least take me out to dinner first?"**_

 _"I suppose a last meal is customary. I'll have a sandwich or something sent in. Americans like peanut butter, right? Anyway, when can you get here?"_

 _ **"Our hostage policy isn't one-size-fits-all, pal. Can you call back? I need time to confer with a superior officer."**_

 _"How long?"_

 _ **"Half an hour should be plenty."**_

 _"You have twenty minutes."_

 _ **"I'll talk fast. What are your terms?"**_

 _"You fly in to Moscow, alone. Some of my employees will meet you there, drop off the rookies, and transport you to my current location. If you do not come, or if you come with backup, the gentlemen currently in my custody will be killed. I will continue abducting and killing U.N.C.L.E. agents until you are dead."_

 _ **"I don't suppose you'd settle for me getting squooshed to death by a vending machine here at the office, would you? I hate flying."**_

 _"I want to personally and prolongedly precipitate your passing."_

" _ **Understood, Illustrious Lord of Alliteration."**_ He added to the agents, _**"You kids hang in there—"**_

 _"Aaand, I'll just block the radio signal now. Mr. Solo, you can call back in fifteen minutes."_

"Thanks." Napoleon paused a second. "Not that I'm overstuffed by a sense of my own importance, but aren't you getting the raw end of the deal here? Letting us two Enforcement types go in exchange for a secretary?"

 _"It's always amusing to hear how tightlipped your so-called upright agency is with its own people. Alas, I have better things to do than to fill in the unfortunate gaps in your knowledge."_

Illya appeared on the cusp of saying something insulting, so Napoleon slapped a hand over his mouth and said, "I'm sure you do, Mr. Park, and I'd hate to keep you from your… things… but would you be so kind as to answer one little question?"

 _"Maybe. What's your question?"_

"If you're still with T.H.R.U.S.H. and you know who Mr. Kuryakin is, how can we trust that you'll let him go as you promise?"

 _"My priorities are not aligned with T.H.R.U.S.H. on that particular issue. If Mr. Kuryakin cares to stick around of his own free will, that's fine by me. If not, however, I am more concerned with finishing off Agent Ogola than with obtaining Kuryakin's services. Dr. Egret let Aristophanes die. If she wants Kuryakin, she can get him herself."_

A pulse of static signaled the end of the conversation.

* * *

 _New York_

"Waverly."

 _"Sir, this is Ogola. Park is holding Solo and Kuryakin. He says he's willing to make a trade."_

"To my office, Mr. Ogola."

 _"Yes, sir."_

* * *

 _Somewhere in Eastern Europe, probably_

"Napoleon."

"Yes?"

"Before mentioning the idea of an exchange, Park mentioned having us as bait."

"Which implies more of a trap than a swap," Solo acknowledged.

"Which do you suppose is more likely?"

"Park's a thrushbird. Always suppose the worst, grasshopper."

* * *

 _New York_

"Has Mr. Park mentioned any details regarding the exchange?"

Ogola relayed the information.

"What do you think of it?"

"As I think has been established, Mr. Waverly, I'm not Enforcement material. And I'm not the suicide mission type. I know Solo and Kuryakin have the potential to be much more valuable to U.N.C.L.E. than I do, but I'm not going in unless there's a fair chance I'm getting out."

"Luckily for you, Mr. Ogola, U.N.C.L.E. is not in the habit of sending agents in without the intention of bringing them home again. We cannot make guarantees, of course, aside from the promise that we will do all we can."

Waverly spun the table around. "Now, to business. If we appear to agree with the exchange, I see little chance of all three of you coming back. You will be whisked away, and Solo and Kuryakin safely returned, as he claims—or he will suspect you are being guarded and will leave you, and kill Solo and Kuryakin—or Park will hold all three of you. Therefore, we will simply let him have all three from the start."

Ogola started flipping through the file that had landed before him.

"Our best chance of ensuring Solo, Kuryakin, and you all get out is to have you all get out together, without other agents attempting to infiltrate from the outside. When Park calls again, you will say that U.N.C.L.E. refuses to negotiate, but you have decided to act alone and make the exchange without our knowledge or approval. You will state that you will do as he wants, but cannot speak of details using U.N.C.L.E. technology, and will work out the plan after you have left the office. Or, at least, after you claim to have left the office."

"Gutsy, aren't I, sir?"

"You will go in with explosives on your person, as we have developed a new mechanism that we believe can be manipulated in such a way that may be overlooked by Park and his staff, unlike any other sort of weaponry that he would inevitably force you to part with."

Ogola ran a finger over one of the diagrams in the file. "Clear plastic explosives?"

"Yes. Moldable, of course. Transparent. Highly stable under most conditions. Alsaqri—you remember Mr. Alsaqri, don't you?—needs only to make an impression of your face, then he can create a mask for you out of the material. He will also explain the detonation process."

"Sir—as I'm sure you're aware, that sounds a lot it'll be a lot like the protective mask I had to wear when my burns were still new. Do you think Park will buy that I still need it? And that he'll let me keep it?"

"Mr. Park is concerned with the damage that chemical substances can inflict. His knowledge of how to heal such wounds is, to put it generously, minimal. He may enjoy having you retain an additional reminder of what harm he was able to cause you. As he will hopefully be convinced that you've 'gone rogue', he might be less wary of your being armed.

"Now go to the Costuming room on the Laboratory floor before you are called again. Once you've relayed your intentions to Park and finished your meeting with Alsaqri, return here and we will finish our briefing."

* * *

 _Eastern Europe, probably_

"Napoleon."

"Yes?"

"What does 'scintillating' mean?"

"It means 'a pretty girl whom I thought I was pumping for information, but really she was feeding me what Park wanted me to know, and then she planted a bug on my stuff while I was otherwise occupied'."

Illya blinked. "I didn't mean for you to give me your excuse for why you were presumably flirting with someone. I understand certain tactics are necessary in the line of duty."

"Exciting."

"Sorry?"

"'Scintillating' means 'exciting'."

"And was she?"

* * *

 _New York_

"Ah, Gershwin. It must always be a pleasure for you to visit the only man shorter than you in the office."

"Only on a technicality, Ramzy," Ogola rejoined to the man who was seated in a wheelchair, sloshing some liquid around a tub.

After a long and distinctly uncomfortable stay with T.H.R.U.S.H. last year, Ramzy Alsaqri had been left with irreparable knee damage and chronic headaches, the combination of which had resulted in his being retired from work in the field. Thanks to his academic and professional background, he had been assigned a position in the labs.

Alsaqri gestured to a chair by the counter he was mixing things at. "Sit and keep your closeable face-holes shut."

Ogola sat quietly and closed his eyes as Alsaqri coated the scarred side of his face with plaster.

* * *

 _Eastern Europe (probably)_

Static.

 _"Call the office again, Mr. Solo."_

"Yes! I will indeed do that, Mr. Park!" Napoleon exclaimed, picking up the communicator. Upon observing the hint of a smirk tilting his cellmate's mouth, he realized his enthusiasm for an out was overblown, so he took a second to poke his tongue out at the blond before activating the communicator. "Open channel S."

 _ **"Still at Andy's place, kid?"**_

"Sadly yes. What's the word from Mr. Waverly, Ger?"

 _ **"The bad news is the old man says no dice."**_

"What's the good news, if there is any?"

 _ **"The good news is I'm popping by anyway. Yo, you with us, Mr. Park?"**_

 _"I'm listening."_

 _ **"Would you be willing to make the trade even if it's not authorized by U.N.C.L.E.?"**_

 _"Are you kidding? I've been waiting years to kill you! I don't give a rat's ass if it's authorized!"_

 _ **"In that case, it's too risky for me to keep communicating with you on an authorized channel. I'll give you my number and we can talk details when I get off work."**_ Gerry rattled off a phone number and a time and closed the channel.

 _"It's reassuring to know that there's some integrity left in this world, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. Your cooperation thus far has been greatly appreciated. Oleg, I believe our guests have earned themselves their daily bread. We'll be in touch, gentlemen."_

A pulse of static, then a metallic clapping sound as one of the slots in the door was whacked open.

"You two sit on the bed," Oleg called in. "Keep hands on your knees. I bring food and Adam brings gun, okay?"

"Okee-doke, Ollie," Napoleon returned cheerily as they followed the instructions.

A pair of eyes peered through the slot before disappearing, then the three beeps sounded and the door slowly swiveled open. Adam came just far enough into the room for himself and his weapon to be visible, then Oleg came through with a couple of paper bags.

After depositing the bags on the table, Oleg turned back, progressing slowly so he had enough time to snarl something at the American who'd not always been as cooperative as Park had expressed some appreciation for.

Seeing as he had no clue what had been said, Napoleon simply smiled, "Why, thank you."

Illya apparently had some clue, however, as he snarled something back, which prompted Oleg to stop on the spot and shout in response, which led to Illya standing up and sneering a few choice words, so Oleg made as if to lunge at Illya, which resulted in Adam snapping at Oleg, and Oleg made an angry gesture before grumbling something and stalking away.

There was a beep and, as the door slowly swiveled shut, Illya started singing and clapping out a rhythm with his hands. Oleg apparently did not appreciate the crooning, as he was just getting started on yelling again when the door finished closing and the sounds from the guardroom were cut off.

Kuryakin finished the line he was on with a ' _hey!_ ', then grinned and said, "Let's eat."

Napoleon wordlessly motioned a few times between the door and his cellmate before joining Illya at the table and asking, "What in the heck was that?"

Illya took one of the bags and, reaching in, asked back, "What 'that'? The song or the language or the topic of conversation?" He extracted an overripe banana and a sandwich of some kind from his sack, and nudged the other bag a bit closer to Napoleon's side of the table. "Oh, and before you answer that, can you tell me if you suppose it is safe for us to eat something given us by a homicidal maniac?"

"For your second question, I'm thinking that Parksy wouldn't go for something as dull and ordinary as poisoning food, so dig in."

The blond grunted and accordingly set to work on peeling the fruit.

"For your first question, all of the above."

"The song is 'Hatikvah', which was in Hebrew. My conversation with—what's his name?— _Oleg_ was in Russian. Could I have your banana, and I give you my sandwich?"

"Will that be enough calories for you?"

"I survived ten days on vodka and six servings of falafel. It will be a feast. Also, I assume we will be attempting an escape and making some effort toward preventing Gerry's impending demise, so it would be better if I keep my intestines happy for as long as possible."

Napoleon shuffled around the food items accordingly and waited until they were both a few bites into their respective meals before pressing, "Well?"

"What 'well'?"

"Well, what were you and Oleg yelling at each other in Russian about?"

"Well. I." The flash of a triumphant smile. "Do not know such foul words in English." He seemed to consider the matter settled.

"How about the gist of the English version?"

Illya managed to frown deeply as he chewed, shaking his head slightly.

"For all intents and purposes, we're partners for the _Let's-get-the-hell-out-of-here_ Affair. Partners don't withhold potentially relevant information."

Illya hesitated another few moments. "Oleg's remarks… were dominated by slurs against religious, ethnic, and other minorities."

"He certainly tried to cover all the bases, didn't he?" He pulled back one of the stale slices of bread and sniffed at the slice of unidentifiable deli meat within. It didn't smell definitively off, so he took a bite and hoped for the best. "And what might be the gist of your remarks to our pal Ollie?"

Illya shot him a plaintive look.

"I need to know how much I have to suck up to him to compensate for whatever gems you shot in his direction."

A sigh, then he set to explaining his end of the conversation, using fingers to number each part of the repartee. "First thing I said: I called him a coward for saying rude things that you could not understand. Then he said that the things he said of you went for me, as well.

"Second thing I said: I congratulated him on not being entirely wrong in his assessment of me. Then Adam told Oleg to not be an idiot and to just leave.

"Third thing I said—well, I assumed he would not appreciate a song based on a poem in Hebrew written by a Jewish man."

"Not to criticize your technique, partner, but let's try not to antagonize our heavily-armed friends in the future, hmm? You'll catch more bigoted flies with honey than with vinegar. And by 'catch', of course, I mean 'make it less likely that they'll spontaneously murder us in a rage'."

"Of course, _partner_. I will make a mental note of that. Verbal provocation: bad. Physically assaulting them: good."

"Sometimes a good old-fashioned sneak attack does the trick," Napoleon defended himself.

"And other times, the trick's on you."

"Yes. Well. Next time, I'm counting on us sneaking and attacking together. If at least one of them's unarmed, we might have a chance."

* * *

 _New York_

"That was awkward," Ogola sighed as soon as he'd turned off the communicator. "Did it sound more-than-usual like I was talking out one side of my mouth?"

"It sounded fine. Now sound really quiet until I get the plaster off your face."

Ogola grunted in response and, a few moments later, Alsaqri decided the mold was set enough and slowly peeled the material off his subject's face. After affixing the thing to a rig on the counter and pouring a liquid into it, he set to explaining the weapon to the secretary.

"The plastic part of the mask is the explosive. After it sets, it is rigid and can be fractured into smaller pieces to size the explosion to your taste. Feel the weight." He broke off about a square centimeter and handed it to Ogola. "If you use an equal weight of C-4, this is roughly five times the strength of C-4."

Ogola hefted the bit of plastic a few times to get a feel for it, then Alsaqri took the fragment back, broke it again, and dropped a smaller piece into the sink, continuing on with, "The Velcro that will fasten the mask around your head can be torn." After demonstrating, he handed an intact strip to Ogola. "Try it."

"Hoo, boy," Ogola muttered. "Hate to break it to ya—and hate to break it to me—but my grip ain't all that, Ramzy." After a few attempts, a tear made it about a third of the way through. Another readjustment on his hold allowed for a final effort that finished the job of tearing it into two separate pieces.

"The backing of the strips is an abrasive. Rub two together and—" He continued demonstrating, a bit of fire sparking as he did so. "Then touch the spark to the plastic and—" As soon as Alsaqri dropped the burning Velcro onto the plastic he'd broken off, the plastic erupted into a small ball of flame. A couple of seconds later, a _boom_ rattled the counter and a larger ball of flame blew out to all corners of the sink.

While Alsaqri put out the inferno with an extinguisher he had stashed in a pouch on his wheelchair, Ogola asked, "So what's the odds it'll spontaneously erupt on what's left of my pretty face?"

"Do you have any plans to spontaneously start breathing fire?"

"Not currently."

"Then there is no risk to your pretty face, as I assume you would not be stupid enough to allow an open flame that close to your visage, mask or no mask."

"That's what I like to hear."

"Which part: the assumption that you're not stupid or the part about the mask not being prone to spontaneous combustion?"

"Either is encouraging."

Alsaqri scrounged around his lab-coat pocket for a moment before producing a few silvery loops. "These metal bits will attach the Velcro to the plastic. They are trackers. You can be tracked from close range or from here in New York. I do not know the details of that part, so perhaps you can go find that out with Mr. Waverly while I finish here."

* * *

 _Eastern Europe (probably)_

Napoleon knocked on the panel covering the upper slot in the door. It was slapped open to reveal Oleg glaring through a grate.

"What?" the guard demanded.

"I hate to be a bother, but we don't have a trash receptacle in here." He held up the crumpled paper bags. "Could you toss this for us, or shall we start a collection?"

From behind him, Illya started whistling 'Hatikvah' and, when Oleg's glare switched to the blond, Kuryakin tossed in a wink and wiggled his fingers in greeting. Oleg glowered back to Napoleon, clanged open the lower slot that didn't have grating over it, and snapped, "Give," so Solo passed through the trash and the guard whacked both slots shut again.

Solo turned around, folding his arms but not looking terribly angry with his self-satisfied cellmate. "Didn't we just go over something about not provoking the henchmen?"

Illya shrugged. "Interrogators sometimes use the good-cop-bad-cop concept, yes? I thought we could try good-prisoner-bad-prisoner." A quirk of a grin. "I believe I have… 'called dibs' on 'bad prisoner'."

"I don't think that's a thing, but we'll try to work it in somewhere." He returned to the table. "Meanwhile, at least we're finding out useful stuff."

Kuryakin stacked his fists one atop the other and propped his chin on the mini tower. "Like what?"

Solo ticked off on his fingers, "That the slots in the door and the door itself cannot be opened from in here. That there are three beeps when the door is going to open, and one beep when it closes. That the guards are too strong for me to take out singlehandedly. That there's a staticky sound when the speaker in the ceiling turns on and off. That they have to physically come in to the room to bring food. That Oleg is an angry bigot. That Adam is more level-headed. That the larger slot in the door has a grate over it."

Illya let his chin drop down to be propped up by only one hand, using the index finger of his newly-freed hand to tap at Napoleon's fingers. "That we are likely in or near Russia. That Park is childish, willing to do anything to get what he wants, and needs to have his head examined. That Gerry was formerly a field agent, will likely be joining us within a few days, and needs to have his head examined. That you think I am insecure enough that you need to excuse your flirtations with scintillating Brazilians, are willing to engage in a physical altercation without a reasonable understanding of your situation, and need to have your head examined. That I—I just generally need to have my head examined."

* * *

 _New York_

"Mr. Ogola, you know Anton Bai and Veronica Wayside. When Park calls again, you will attempt to reach an agreement with him as close as possible to what we are about to discuss."

"Yes, sir."

"You will fly in to Moscow alone, and Bai and Wayside will follow after the next day. Based on communication, or lack thereof, from Solo or Kuryakin, we will determine whether or not Park intends to honor the exchange.

"If Park appears to have honored the agreement, Bai and Wayside will attempt to embed within a mile East of wherever Park is. You, Solo, and Kuryakin will affect your collective escape, and meet up with Wayside and Bai, who will escort you back to New York.

"If Park does not appear to have honored the agreement, Bai, Wayside, Solo, and Kuryakin will work to extract you. Anything you can do to help yourself would be appreciated, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"Once you make a plan with Park, there will be no turning back, Mr. Ogola. You must carry through. Are you committed to the mission?"

"Yes, sir."

Wayside gave the secretary a light punch in the shoulder. "We've got your back, Ger. Park's gonna want to savor the moment. He won't kill you before there's been plenty of time for you to attempt an escape with Solo and Kuryakin, or time for us to attempt an extraction."

"I know, Ronnie. I appreciate it."

Bai shrugged. "If you are willing to risk your neck even when you're not in Enforcement, we should be honored to do our part."

* * *

 _Likely in or near Russia_

Based on the lack of windows and clocks, plus the obnoxiously bright lights without any evident on-off switch in the room, the intention seemed to be disorientation.

They agreed that having both of them unconscious at the same time wasn't the greatest idea, and that being on a regular day-night sleep cycle seemed essentially impossible, so the pair decided to turns napping, with a bit of time between naps for them both to be awake and discuss any strokes of inspiration they may have had regarding plans for departure.

Neither of them was especially tired, but Napoleon agreed to take the first nap since Illya seemed more wired-up from his recent confrontation with Oleg.

"It's not as if I'll be getting the best sleep of my life, so just wake me up if you need a little company."

"You needn't worry about me. Have I given any indication that I need that?"

"You mean besides your friendly bit of banter with Ollie? Okay. Besides that—don't take this the wrong way, but for the most part you've seemed rather… cheerful."

"Now is hardly the time for me to appear distressed or angry. The… banter… was unfortunate, and I will try not to repeat that, since if I seemed to be taking things badly, you will inevitably be concerned. My being stressed and your being worried would hardly represent an optimal condition for our staging an escape."

"True, but your being uncharacteristically jolly is also concerning."

Illya rubbed at his temples. "Going forward, I believe it would be safer for me to err on the side of happy. Please take your nap," he concluded with a smile that added _before I stop smiling at you_.

Napoleon accordingly returned to his bed and closed his eyes, but a few seconds later he commented, "It's so bright. And quiet. It's like we're supposed to feel like we've died and gone to a demented version of heaven."

" _È_ _r de p_ _í_ _ngf_ _ānggēn shì wúlĭshù_."

Solo lifted his head and opened his eyes to stare at Kuryakin with a question mark of an expression.

Illya re-plastered his best effort at a smile to his face. "While I cannot remedy the brightness and unfortunately do not have a white noise machine at my disposal, I thought I might explain several proofs of the irrationality of the square root of two. In Mandarin."

Solo grinned. "Aw, I get a bedtime story?" He closed his eyes and settled back again. "At least tell me how it ends in English. Then I can relax and listen to the rest of it in Chinese."

"And that's why the square root of two can never be expressed as a ratio of two integers. _Quod erat demonstrandum_. The end."

Napoleon chuckled and tossed an arm over his face to block out some of the light, and Illya switched to Mandarin, keeping up a quiet stream of mathematical proofs until he seemed to have a snoozing Solo on his hands. The exercise proved to have had a calming effect on himself as well, but his voice was reaching its limit so he stopped and glanced around for something else to occupy himself with.

Illya set to a close inspection of the entire room, even though Napoleon had reported having poked around in great detail to no avail. There were only so many times he could scour the minimalistic room, so he eventually climbed back up to the upper bunk, kneeling on the hard surface to squint his way through an examination of the nearest lighting fixture. It seemed to be a fairly standard, industrial fluorescent light.

Plastic covering. Two tubular lightbulbs inside.

Rigid plastic. Glass. Metal.

Probably the best available option for weaponization.

Probably also some mercury inside but, for the immediate future, being at the mercy of men with guns was likely the more dangerous option than potentially coming into contact with a relatively small amount of the hazardous material.

Well. Mission accomplished. Stroke of inspiration achieved. Something to discuss with Napoleon when he woke up.

Now what?

What a fine mess this was.

Was now really the time for introspective thinking?

Thinking like that could only lead to trouble.

Trouble wasn't something he needed more of.

Of course, this was all his fault.

His fault for joining U.N.C.L.E.

His fault for hacking Aristophanes Corporation documents.

His fault that nearly two hundred people had died prematurely.

His fault that Napoleon and Gerry had their lives on the line.

His head hurt. His stomach hurt. His chest hurt. The room was starting to move—

And no, no, no, they'd established that Dr. Egret had caused his panic attacks! He hadn't heard any voices—had he? Oh, now he couldn't remember—or didn't want to remember—or couldn't—

And why was it so bright?

And why was he suddenly nauseous, and why should he care that he was nauseous? He should be crushed—focused on escaping—heartbroken—thinking of more ideas to suggest to Napoleon—sobbing— _something_.

Doing _something_ , not just lying here—or there—the room was whirling so—had he fallen off the bunk? Over the edge? Off his rocker?

Maybe it was something he ate— _oh_ , how his stomach was lurching, how his heart was pounding, how his thoughts were tumbling—maybe they'd fallen off the bunk—

No, the thoughts weren't falling, weren't leaving—they were all there, all here, all crashing into one another, pounding at his skull, at his chest, at his throat—

And oh, **that damn light** —

* * *

A shattering sound was hardly the gentlest of ways to be awakened. Opening your eyes to an overly well-lit room was only a marginal improvement, but somehow the cell seemed slightly less blinding than he recalled from the first time he'd woken up in here.

A second shattering sound drew Solo from his groggy contemplation of the lighting level, and he slid off his cot to check on the upper bunk, which turned out to be the right place to investigate. The lights directly above the bunks had been broken, and fragments of glass and rigid plastic were scattered over the upper bunk and its occupant—the occupant that was still lashing out at the already-demolished fixture.

"Illya, stop. Come on—get down. Come on."

Napoleon ended up half-dragging Illya off the cot, and he cringed as he caught sight of the lines of red crisscrossing the Russian's hands.

"God, Illya, your hand just healed. What were you thinking?"

Illya shrugged. Stared blankly at Napoleon's shoulder for nearly a minute. When he spoke, it was in a monotone. "I thought back on the events of the day. It made me angry. I was going to contain myself, but then I realized that venting my rage could be beneficial."

"Your solution was to be angry _and_ in pain?" Napoleon gingerly guided his cellmate over the minefield of glass and plastic shards, depositing Illya on one of the chairs before going around to take the other seat, push up the pajama sleeves, and examine the wounds more carefully. "How's that working out? Feeling better yet?"

"I am not in pain," Illya countered, still using an oddly subdued voice that Napoleon found singularly disturbing. If he'd thought Uncharacteristically Cheery Illya was disquieting, this was a different level. "Now our quarters will have to be cleaned. The goons will come in or they will have to give us things which we may be able to use for purposes other than cleanup."

"I'm sure we could have arranged to wrap your fists in some fabric, or at least some toilet paper—or just anything," Solo muttered. He turned over the scratched-up hands to check the palms and inner wrists. "Looks like we've got a gusher. Or we will in a moment. Look here."

Blue eyes obediently shifted down to follow the thumb pointing at his left wrist.

"It's already bleeding out a little, and there's a bit of lightbulb still in there. I have to take it out, but then it'll probably bleed more."

Another shrug. "So now we need cleaning supplies and a first-aid kit. Perhaps you should summon our friends before I start dripping on the floor."

Napoleon nodded. For a moment, he didn't realize why he was so reluctant to comply with that suggestion, but then it hit him.

"Illya, you're not planning anything stupid, are you?"

"I never make stupid plans. If I act stupidly, it is because there is no plan."

"For the sake of clarity, it would be a stupid plan for you to launch a physical attack while a piece of glass is stuck in your wrist. Once you're not running the risk of significant blood loss, we can get to the totally neat-o action sequences, okay?"

Kuryakin nodded and murmured, "Of course, Napoleon," but the appraising look he sent in Solo's direction suggested that, once the glass was out and his wrist was securely bound, all bets were off.

Napoleon nodded back and went to the door, knocking at the metal panel covering the higher slot. It slid open and Adam raised his eyebrows from the other side of the grating.

Solo flashed a grin and, even though he knew the answer perfectly well, he asked, "Adam, right?"

"What now?"

"Well, you see, now, Adam, some people don't take it so well when you murder their parents and, well… funny story, Adam." Solo chuckled. "It turns out our mild-mannered Mr. Kuryakin here is one of those individuals and we, ah, had a little accident with your beautiful, blinding fluorescents."

The American shifted aside a bit to allow a better view of the side of the room with the extinguished lights, and the guard accordingly tilted his head to frown at the mess.

"We could do with a little spring cleaning in here. And a first-aid kit, if you can spare one."

Solo shifted to the other side to allow a better view of Kuryakin, who nonchalantly held up his hands, and the guard accordingly tilted his head forward to frown as a drop of blood hit the floor.

Napoleon sighed in mock exasperation. "Dammit, Illya, I thought I told you not to bleed out until _after_ we got the first-aid kit!"

Illya peered down at the spot of red at the floor, then looked up to say flatly, "How hideously inconsiderate of me."

Napoleon turned back to the door at the sound of Adam hustling around on the other side. The guard returned to the door shortly, seemingly rummaging around a first-aid box as he said, "What do you need?"

Hoping he sounded like he knew what he was talking about and that his standard-issue U.N.C.L.E. medical training would be enough to not make things worse, he said, "Tweezers, some kind of antibiotic cream, bandages… if it's not an adhesive bandage, something to secure the bandage with."

The guard looked up from his rummaging. "Why tweezers?"

Napoleon lifted one hand and pointed at his wrist with the other. "There's some glass in there."

Adam rummaged for another second and held a small bottle up to the grate. "I have liquid stitches. Do you need?"

"Maybe. I think first I'll get the glass out, then try compression to see if the bleeding stops."

"Okay." Adam opened the lower slot and slipped in the items Napoleon had requested, plus a square of white fabric. "Get the blood stopped. We will work on the light after." He closed the lower slot and called something in Russian to the blond before stepping away from the door.

As Adam left the upper slot open, Napoleon took the extra opportunity to peek through to the guardroom, but didn't managed to notice anything from this vantage point that he hadn't seen earlier.

Feeling he'd lingered as long as might seem acceptable for him to linger, he headed back to the table and took the empty seat, announcing, "Dr. Solo has entered the operating room."

Illya offered forth his left wrist, commenting, "I admit that I did not foresee this possibility. Have you steady hands, or should I treat myself?"

"Much as everyone deserves to treat themselves occasionally, my friend, let me handle this one."

Illya blinked and looked vaguely confused, which Napoleon found a welcome respite from the previously blank expression on his companion's face.

Solo kept talking as he started his first attempt at minor surgery. "So what did Adam say to you just now?"

"He said not to break anything else or I would be kept chained to this chair."

"Any invectives thrown in there?"

"No. Oleg must have already fulfilled their daily quota."

"Mm." Solo almost informed his patient that the glass was out, but a brief glance upward showed that Kuryakin was watching the procedure closely, so he went straight to pressing down on the wound with the square of fabric. "Still no pain?"

"Some discomfort when you removed the glass. Better now."

Napoleon looked up as Adam called from the door, "Bleeding stopped?"

"These are early days yet, pal," Solo called back. "I believe allowing five to ten minutes is about standard. If it hasn't stopped by then, I'll take you up on your generous offer of the liquid stitches."

As soon as Adam's face disappeared from behind the grate, Napoleon looked back to his patient, who was still staring down at the wrist being compressed.

"Illya." After a couple of slow blinks and no verbal response, Napoleon craned his neck a bit to duck his head into Illya's line of vision. "It's not your fault, Illya."

The blue eyes blinked rapidly before locking in on the American's face, and Napoleon smiled softly. It seemed he'd hit the nail on the head.

"Well, to be perfectly clear and honest about it, _this_ —" Solo nodded at the wound. "—is your fault. The rest of what you're thinking is your fault… it isn't." He glanced back to the door to make sure the coast was still clear, then leaned in a bit as if to examine the wrist and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of Illya's forearm. "I know—from personal experience, mind you—I know it's hard as anything to get that thought out of your head once it's got in there."

"Would… would you like to talk about your experience?"

"Not here and now." Napoleon rolled his eyes toward the door, then proceeded to pull a horrible face that an eight-year-old could only dream of someday achieving.

"Perhaps elsewhere and later, then." Illya mirrored his quick glance at the door before asking quietly, "But how do you know that is what I thought?"

"Because I know it's what I would be thinking, even though it isn't true. It isn't your fault. You know how I know that?"

Illya sort of frowned.

"I know it's not your fault because I can't control whether or not you _think_ it's your fault. And if I can't control what you think, it makes sense that you can't control what Park thinks. And if you can't control what he thinks, you certainly can't control what he does. Ergo… not your fault."

"I exposed documents that precipitated U.N.C.L.E. action against Park."

"You provided an assist in shutting down a chemical weapons factory. You acted with good intentions. What's happening now was not an easily foreseeable side effect." Napoleon further lowered his already quiet volume. "Do you still trust me, chou?"

Nod.

"Then please try to trust me on this. It's not your fault. You did a good thing, and U.N.C.L.E. did its part. As long as you're doing the best you can to make the world a little less stinky, that's all you can do."

The corners of Illya's mouth twitched. "That can be U.N.C.L.E.'s motto."

"What can?"

He used his free hand as if picturing a billboard. "U.N.C.L.E.: we make the world stink less."

Napoleon grinned. "We can pitch that when we get back to the office." He took the cloth away and observed the cut for a few seconds. "Okay, hopefully that's it on the bleeding. Let's see how it holds up under a bandage."

Once through with the antibiotic ointment and applying the adhesive bandage, Napoleon pressed a hand on Illya's shoulder as a silent _'stay here'_ and went to the door to beckon Adam over. "We seem to have it under control. What now, boss?"

Adam said something in Russian to Oleg, who had returned to the guardroom sometime between the initiation of the situation and now, then came over to the door to say, "Now you go back to the table and stay there. We come in to handcuff you and Miss Kuryakin—"

"Oh, come on, Adam," Napoleon cut in before he could think twice. "I had faith in your maturity, buddy. Can we not avoid reducing ourselves to such pettiness?"

Oleg got up from his slouching at a table in the guardroom to stomp over to the door. "That—" Some word in Russian. "—was petty first!"

Illya got up from his table and came over to his side of the door, spewing a stream of other Russian words until Oleg started shouting back, at which point Napoleon gave up on trying to separate out the words being yelled by each man. Adam slapped himself on the forehead and withdrew from the door, apparently with the intention of just letting the argument play out.

It was all Solo could do to stop himself from facepalming. Here he'd thought he'd managed to talk Kuryakin into a slightly more stable state but, well, that was all up in flames, as evidenced by the blond's increasingly aggressive gestures.

"Hey, hey, hey, Illya—"

Kuryakin whirled on him to respond, but the response came in the form of very fast Russian.

"Illya, I don't understand—"

"He, the— _kak mne skazat'_?" Illya rubbed at the back of his head, growled something at the still-rambling Oleg, then said in an atypically thick accent to Napoleon, "This man… I see him at ruin of apartment—parents' apartment—and now he insult—" Another break to snap at Oleg. "First he kill family and now he insulting family—Solo!"

Napoleon let himself be pulled off toward the corner of the room with the toilet, which was the only spot that was beyond the guards' view from behind the door.

Once established in the safe spot, Illya continued in a strained whisper. "Napoleon, not good—is no good. Dunno— _chert voz'mi_ , I lose the grammar, I lose the English—" He spun back to yell in response to Oleg's ongoing angry monologuing, then returned to face Napoleon briefly before dropping his head into his hands.

"Come on, calm down before you start hyperventilating," Napoleon said quietly, lightly taking hold of the hands and pulling them down. "Breathe, partner, breathe."

Illya slowly withdrew his hands and held the sides of his head. He murmured at the floor, "I should handle okay—handle this okay. Even if I am angry in my head, I should be able to control me—myself. You know I do not—I do not normally… lash out. I never get so angry that I forget English." Another quick break to yell back at Oleg.

"Hey, stop, stop, stop… breathe… this isn't a normal situation."

Illya looked up from the floor briefly, then lowered his gaze again to mutter, "I understand that this is a uniquely bad situation, but I have been in bad situations before. I never get this bad." He inhaled slowly and exhaled, "It might be the medication. I forgot it again the morning you arrived in Moscow. That makes at least two days missing, and now… I do not know how long we have been here. Maybe three days missing now."

"Okay. Okay. This is a lousy time we're having, but I'm with you. You're with me. Everyone else in this place is a parasite. Focus whatever you can on observing and thinking of ways to bust out of here. Don't respond to them. I'll handle all communication. Think you can do that?"

Illya's jaw clenched at a bit of Oleg's ongoing commentary, but he finally met Napoleon's gaze. "I can."

"Yes, you can. Observe. Think. Ignore." Solo flashed his teeth in a smile. "Except me. Don't ignore me." He motioned to the table, so Illya went to sit back down as Napoleon returned to the door and spoke loudly over Oleg's grousing, "Hey, Adam, we're ready in here. Unless you want us to have more time to make nice pointy weapons out of the assorted shards."

Adam came over and gave his coworker a shove. "Go get handcuffs. I get the gun. Solo, go sit. You and Kuryakin keep hands on the table."

Napoleon took his seat and reminded Illya under his breath, "Ignore them."

Three beeps, and the door slowly swung open. The muzzle of a gun came first, followed by Adam, who stood by the door as Oleg tromped in with two pairs of handcuffs. Oleg grumbled in Russian throughout the entire procedure of cuffing each of the men, and Napoleon's smile grew increasingly forced with each pulse of Illya's clenched jaw muscle.

Adam said something to Oleg in Russian, then added, "We are putting you in the guardroom until your mess is cleaned up."

Oleg grabbed each man by an arm and walked them out to the guardroom, yanked them so they sat back-to-back in a pair of slat-backed chairs, then took a third pair of handcuffs from the back of his belt. He hooked one of the bracelets to the chain between Illya's cuffs, passed the thing between the rails in the back of the chairs, and hooked the other bracelet to the chain between Napoleon's cuffs.

As soon as Oleg and Adam had gone back into the holding cell, Solo and Kuryakin both twisted around so they were side-by-side, as that was less stressful on the arms given the way they'd been fastened together. It also conveniently allowed them a better view of the guardroom.

Napoleon grinned at his handcuff buddy. He couldn't say he was fond of Illya's light-punching tactic, but it had sure gotten them a beautiful opportunity to check out a new part of the building.

Illya quirked his lips in return. It seemed Napoleon had more-or-less accepted that the light-punching had been less ' _act of blind rage_ ' and more ' _yep, totally planned this_ '.

To make it less obvious that they were casing the joint, Solo struck up a little conversation. "So how's the bandage holding up?"

Table behind them with a mini fridge, a couple of cups, cutlery, and a toaster.

"Nothing appears to have bled through yet."

A weird Star Trek-looking board of buttons on the opposite wall, complete with labels in Cyrillic at a comically large font size and a red button.

"Always glad to hear it."

Beneath the Star Trek board was a weapons cabinet, with a few guns visible through the glass-fronted bench-style cabinet.

"Do you often have occasion to be glad at the news that someone is not bleeding profusely?"

Next to the door to the holding cell were a speaker and a couple more buttons.

"Not at a personal level, but it's always a good day when there isn't an inordinate amount of bodily fluids being lost by living organisms."

Across from the cell door was an open door, and beside that doorway was what appeared to be a fire escape-plan map, with major features labelled in English.

"You are a wizard with words, Napoleon. It is little wonder you have such success with the ladies."

Being the one closer to the exit door, Solo leaned in a bit for a closer look at the reassuring and somewhat ironic indication that T.H.R.U.S.H. took fire safety seriously. Colored dots with Russian-language labels were sprinkled throughout different rooms on the diagram.

"Yes, the ladies do love an invigorating bodily-fluids-based conversation."

According to the map, this was a three-story facility and they were currently in the lowest level.

"Might you say that they find it scintillating?"

It seemed that the door next to the map led to a staircase, and the floor above featured another guardroom, a garage, and a storage room.

"Might we say that 'scintillating' is your new favorite word?"

On the third floor was a room labeled as 'Office', which presumably was code for 'Chambers of the Head Villain'.

"No. 'Defenestration' reigns supreme still. Have you a favorite word?"

Illya tugged at their linked handcuffs and nodded his head down to the corner of the room just behind them, not far from the cell door.

"I've been partial to 'bawcock' lately."

The corner Illya had indicated was occupied by a small table, upon which was a bowl, within which was a colorful collection of loose keys.

"Egad, Mr. Solo, watch your language in polite company."

Napoleon met the glint in Illya's eyes with a smile.

"I always do, Mr. Kuryakin. If you'll find me some polite company, I'll watch it real carefully."

Now Solo tugged at the handcuffs and jerked his head at the fire escape plan, so they both leaned closer to the exit door to allow Kuryakin a look at the thing.

"The options for people that I can introduce you to are unfortunately rather limited at the moment, as far as 'polite company' goes."

Illya got up from his seat a bit to get a better look at the labeled, multi-colored dots, then nodded to indicate that yes, those dots were important.

"Mm. Free license to cuss 'til the cows come home, I suppose."

Kuryakin returned to his seat, tugging the connected handcuffs about to their limit as he stretched a leg over to the table with the key bowl and used his toes to delicately transfer three of the keys to his chair.

"With the implication there being that the cows would represent polite company?"

From the chair, Illya used his toes to transfer the keys one by one to Napoleon's pajama pant pockets, and Napoleon used his hands and a little strategic wiggling to make sure the keys were safely in the pouches.

"Of course. I, for one, have never met a coarse-speaking cow, so I can only attribute that to our bovine brethren having, as a class, exemplary etiquette."

Illya shot a glance at the cell and whispered, "They're almost done," so they shuffled around so they were back-to-back again when an unhappy-looking Adam and an extremely unhappy-looking Oleg returned to the guardroom with the evidence of their having cleaned up and replaced the broken light.

"You do that again, you stay in the cuffs," Adam informed the blond curtly.

"We understand the rules now, buddy," Napoleon promised. "Going forward, we will make every effort to not punch your lights out."

* * *

 _The next day or thereabouts_

The three beeps sounded, and the door opened just long enough to admit a stumbling new arrival, who regained their feet before suffering a face-plant. As soon as the figure straightened up to its full five feet, a smiling face partly shielded by a translucent plastic material turned to Napoleon.

"Liebchen!"

Even though he knew this was coming, Solo couldn't repress a blink of surprise and the "Ger?" that tumbled out of his mouth.

The slightly-built man spread his arms and came over to wrap Napoleon in a warm hug. "So good to see you in one piece," Gerry beamed before moving on to shake hands with Illya. "Hello, hello." Glancing around at the ceiling and walls (a task that required a lot of physical turning, as the mobility in his neck seemed limited), Gerry called, "Okay, Park, I said my hellos. Let the little ones run along now."

 _"I would, Agent Ogola, I really would, but perhaps you noticed a bit of a blizzard brewing on your way in."_

Kuryakin contributed, "I've not spent much time in Siberia. Would you say that is typical of the region this time of year?"

 _"Nice try, but I'm still not telling you where we are."_

Solo rubbed his hands together. "No problemo, Mr. Park, just loan us a map and a couple of parkas and we'll have a go at it, blizzard or no blizzard."

 _"I'd love to, Agent Solo, if only I could be certain that you'd perish somewhere along the way. However, as Agent Ogola can attest to, U.N.C.L.E. agents have an annoying knack for surviving against all odds, so there is a nonzero possibility that you'd make it back to civilization with some knowledge of where my cozy little chalet is located."_

"Would it help if we pinky-promised not to tell?"

 _"Then you'd know where my hideout is_ _ **and**_ _have an opportunity to do me bodily harm."_

"Well, only to your pinky."

Gerry gave half a shrug. "Maybe he has a very sensitive pinky."

"No," Illya put in, "I've seen his hands. I do not recall them seeming particularly frail, so far as pinkies go."

An exasperated sigh came through the speaker. _"I should really have built more than one holding cell."_

Gerry wagged a finger at the ceiling. "Let this be a lesson to you. Crime doesn't pay but, if it does, use the loot to upgrade your lair."

 _"It will be a pleasure to kill you, Agent Ogola. I'd been somewhat soothed by the idea that you were alive in body but not in spirit. Now I know only death will complete the job of destroying your soul."_

"Good to know you're keeping up with the melodramatic villain persona, Andy. Grade A histrionics, good sir."

 _"God, I need a drink."_

Napoleon tutted. "I'm pretty sure most deities aren't on speaking terms with you just now. You'll have to tend your own bar."

Gerry added, "And while you're prepping consumables, don't forget my peanut butter sandwich, m'kay?"

There was a bit of grumbling, then a pulse of static as the intercom was switched off. Napoleon turned to the new arrival and said, "So you, uh, got to see the blizzard a-comin'?"

Ogola grinned. "Yup. They didn't blindfold me, drop a sack over my head, or even put me in a windowless van. Always a real promising sign when you're being abducted, even if the road signs are in Cyrillic and they took lots of backroads. I guess Park was, like, serious about killing me or something, but I'm pretty sure he'll let you guys go, so… maybe you can avenge me sometime. That'd be cool."

Napoleon made a face. "I don't handle noble sacrifices so well, Ger."

"Neither do I." Ogola looked at the door for a moment. "So how's the soundproofing around these parts?"

"It seems alright," Illya said, then blurted, "Are you one maimed, two killed?"

Gerry flashed a lopsided grin, partly in response to Illya's sudden, blunt question, partly in response to the mix of confusion and dismay on Napoleon's face. "That be me."

Illya grunted an acknowledgement of the confirmation and mentioned to a befuddled Napoleon, "It's to do with information I found when I hacked into U.N.C.L.E.'s virtual network late last year."

Napoleon opted to move away from Kuryakin's grotesque query and asked, "So, Gerry, how do you know our host?"

"One maimed, two killed."

Illya again grunted and nodded, and Napoleon frowned a bit. "Well, now you definitely have to tell me what the hell that's supposed to mean." He added the obligatory, "If you're authorized to talk about it, of course."

"I can't go into detail," Ogola started, "but the general idea is that there was a mission involving Park back in his home-chemistry-kit days. There were three of us from U.N.C.L.E. One of us was shot and another got rained on by sulfuric acid. I tried to pull the agent with the acid out of the building because I was, y'know, real smart like that about coming into contact with corrosives. You'd think years of studying chemical engineering woulda instilled some sense regarding that kind of thing, but nope."

"Does it hurt?" Illya asked.

"Nah, not too bad anymore. I don't even need this thing." Gerry took off the mask. "Well, maybe it's a nice little fashion statement, but it has practical purposes, too. Explosives were never really my specialty, but I've heard you're quite the hobbyist, Mr. Kuryakin."

Kuryakin took the proffered object, raising an eyebrow at Ogola, who mouthed ' _boom_ ' and mimed an explosion. A grin split the Russian's features, and Ogola briefly explained the specifications of the material.

"Alright then, Ger, what's the plan?" Solo asked.

Ogola laughed. "You think I got a plan? The plan was: one, I get in here; two, we all get out of here. Lookee here, bebop, you've got more Enforcement training than I ever got. I'll help out all I can, but—"

Napoleon glanced at the hand that suddenly clapped him on the shoulder.

"—it's a privilege to be present for your first mission as senior agent."

Solo made a comical gulping noise but could just as well have supplied one of the less humorous variety.

"Sorry, kid, but my previous mission—singular—ran along the lines of ' _you guys tell me what to do and watch my back while I futz around with this science-y shit_ '. My marching orders are for us to get ourselves out, like, fast. If we ain't snappy about it, Bai and Wayside will try to help, but breaching the perimeter can be iffy for us hostage-types."

"And there's a blizzard, or so I hear," Illya commented, still investigating the mask, seemingly using his fingers to mark out how much ka-boom each bit could provide.

"Well, as the senior agent, I hereby decree we're better off facing Nature's elements than Park's compounds," Solo announced. He lightly nudged Ogola's arm with his elbow. "Did I use the chemistry-type term right?"

"Not bad, kiddo, not bad."

Napoleon frowned as he stared at Gerry's face.

"Ooh, boy, here it comes."

"Were you one of the guys who recruited me?"

"You can thank me later, babe."

* * *

 _Up in the Office…_

 _"Egret."_

"Hello, Doc. This is Andrew Park."

 _"Park. How'd you get my number?"_

"You, uh… you gave it to me."

 _"So I did. But I assumed you'd assume that I'd have changed it a couple of times by now."_

"So I did. But Occam's razor and all that: the simplest thing to try first was to use the number I had. If it was wrong, I'd find it some other way, of course."

 _"And of course you'd make sheer luck sound like a grand deduction on your part."_ A sigh. _"What do you want, Park?"_

"That is indeed the question, Dr. Egret. What do I want? Specifically, what do I want in exchange for giving you something that _you_ want?"

 _"First let's establish what this something is that you think I want."_

"Illya Kuryakin. I heard that you'd been trying to bring him under T.H.R.U.S.H.'s wing."

 _"And you think I still want to do so."_

"I've never known you to be a quitter, Doc."

 _"I wouldn't be opposed to having Kuryakin as one of us. I'm not sure I'd be willing to pay what you want for him."_

"Goodness gracious, Doc, don't call it payment! You'll make me out to be a human trafficker."

 _"What do you want, Park?"_

"Another chance on Aristophanes. And more control over the facility than I had last time out."

 _"You think I value the Russian kid enough to give you funding in the millions?"_

"Yes." Park smirked at the lack of an immediate denial. "Do we have a deal?"

 _"Do you actually have Kuryakin or are you still in the planning stage?"_

* * *

 _In the holding cell…_

Napoleon and Gerry looked up at the crackle of the intercom, and Illya didn't seem to particularly care.

 _"Kuryakin, how are we feeling today?"_

"I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that plotting your death has been keeping me in high spirits."

 _"Thank you."_

* * *

 _Up in the Office…_

Park switched off the intercom. "To your satisfaction, Doc?"

 _"There's an emerging democracy in Southeast Asia we'd be interested in toppling. We have a few military men there who'd be willing to cover up the less legal side of your business. To_ your _satisfaction, Park?"_

"Yes indeedy." Pause. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in another U.N.C.L.E. agent."

 _"Which one?"_

"I have a rookie, name of Napoleon Solo."

 _"I'll take him, too. Throw him in with Kuryakin. It's both of them or no deal."_

"Uh… what?"

Egret sniffed. _"You don't know them as well as I do, Park. If I don't bring Solo with me, he'll come after Kuryakin. And quite frankly, Park, I don't trust your ability to dispose of U.N.C.L.E. agents in an appropriate manner. Returning to the topic of Aristophanes, you'll recall that you only managed to kill one of the agents on-site, another didn't die until he'd left the building, and the last one survived."_

"Yes. Well." Park thought it rather hypocritical of Egret to criticize his failures, given what he'd heard of her misadventure in the guise of CEA Elinor Crane, but Egret was the one with the big money, so he kept that thought to himself. "I'm taking care of that as we speak."

 _"Oh?"_

"Yes, I—" Park broke off as an alarm went off. "I'll call you back, Doc. Don't change your number."

A snort. _"Taking care of it, Park?"_

"You'll have Kuryakin by the end of the week. And Solo. I'll call you back." Park hung up and switched on the intercom to connect with his flunkies.

* * *

 **A/N** : The non-Gershwin number in the chapter title is by Queen.

I'll try to make the next chapter funnier, but there's still some Serious Stuff that I have to cover and (as you may have noticed) forced humor can be pretty cringe so… ye olde grand finale may take a while to polish up and make presentable(ish). We'll see.

Or I'll see.

I'll definitely see and you'll maybe see.

By which I mean that I'll definitely write and post it (eventually), but it's up to you whether or not you return for it.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Act IV: Melody no 17

**A/N** : If you've made it this far, I assume you've been enjoying it in some way, shape, or form, and that makes me very happy. I wish I could write better for you, but it is what it is, and what it is—is a story that just needs to be finished before I spend a few months angsting over it, :)

Chapter **warnings** : vomiting; mentions of suicide

* * *

 **Act IV** : Melody No. 17/Burn Bright

A flash filled his field of vision, followed closely by an earthshaking _bang_ , and Illya blinked rapidly as an engine revved.

After a split second of wondering where he was (apparently in the cab of a truck) and what he was doing there (apparently being driven somewhere in a hurry), he realized it might help if he actively attempted to assess the situation rather than simply coming up with hypothetical scenarios, and so he started taking inventory.

First, himself. In pajamas. What. The. Hell.

Second, out the windshield. Snow. A dirt road. Frozen, if the bumping as the truck sped along was any indication.

Third, the guy sitting next to him. He looked sort of vaguely familiar. Couldn't attach a name to him, though.

Fourth, the driver. Napoleon. Looking just a hair on the frazzled side. Speaking—oh.

Speaking. Words. English.

Whoever-it-was who was sitting between himself and Napoleon spoke words back, and Illya finally managed to start making sense of their communication when Napoleon said, "As our duly designated explosives expert, any ideas on what happened?"

Based on the lack of an immediate response from Whoever-it-was, Illya figured that Napoleon had been talking to _him_ , so he glanced around.

Attention rapidly drawn by the smoke and flames reflected in the side-view mirror, the Russian decided that the raging inferno was the most likely subject of the American's question. He concluded, "It exploded," since, whatever "it" was, it had probably been the source of the flash-bang and was now being thoroughly incinerated.

 _Exploded_ therefore seemed the logical conclusion.

Napoleon made a sound that labeled the answer as having been less than satisfactory, then pressed wryly, "Spontaneous combustion?"

Illya shrugged. Hell if he knew. And hell if he was going to let on that his brain currently possessed a disturbing lack of memories regarding where they were and how they'd come to be there.

"Don't tell me you set that up."

Had he set that up? He couldn't—well, he remembered something about explosives. Plastic explosive. Whoever-it-was (Gerry? Yes, that was Gerry.) had brought an exploding mask to Illya, who'd used it to blow something up.

Had that something been the thing they were currently driving away from? He still couldn't recall that part but, in any case, he could certainly oblige Napoleon's request, so he nodded, "Very well."

Napoleon dragged a hand down his face before looking back to the blond. "Oh my god, Illya—there were people in there!"

"There were," Illya echoed, the question mark he'd intended lost in a tone that sounded empty to his own ears. Meanwhile, Napoleon's tone had sounded… strange.

"We were going to send a team to recov—they didn't have to die!"

Well, the tone was somehow strange, but the statement was simply ridiculous, so Illya asserted quietly, "We all have to die, Napoleon."

"That wasn't your call to make!"

What was that tone? Was he… was Napoleon angry? The ever-equanimous Napoleon Solo was angry? At him?

Not wanting to make another dive in the wrong conversational direction, Illya gave up and admitted his confusion: "What wasn't my call to make?"

Solo took his focus off the windshield to look in his direction, and whatever the brunet saw in his eyes seemingly prompted the driver to spin the wheel and pull the truck over to the side of the road. The abrupt veering of the vehicle set his insides to flipping, and Illya took advantage of their sudden stop by shoving open the cab door and proceeding to desecrate the snowy ground with the contents of his stomach.

* * *

 _Not too much earlier…_

There was definitely something off about Illya, and Napoleon was a bit dumfounded by his own inability to notice it earlier. Or, rather, he had noticed that something was wrong, and was simply annoyed that he didn't realize just how _off_ was 'off'.

In hindsight, it was insultingly obvious. The drinking, missing meals, forgetting his medication. Losing his habitually tight control on his emotions, slapping Napoleon's hand, fighting with Oleg. Punching out a lighting fixture—allegedly as part of a calculated move, but obviously not as carefully-considered a plan as he would have expected of the Russian.

And now Illya was working out how much explosive would be sufficient for blasting open the door without also blasting open the humans in the holding cells. And he kept asking Gerry to confirm his numbers.

Illya. Asking someone else to check his figures.

Most people? A good idea.

Illya? This was the guy who had gotten bored one evening seven years ago, spent that time memorizing a base-10 logarithm table, and to this day took great delight in impressing/horrifying people by spitting out the logarithm to at least three decimal places of any number suggested to him.

During a lull in the calculations, Solo ventured, "Hey, Illya, what's the logarithm of five?"

"What?"

"Log five. Base ten."

Kuryakin glanced to Ogola, apparently wondered whether an error would go unnoticed by the engineer, and settled on, "In the event you've forgotten, Napoleon, we've more pressing matters to attend than my amusing you with extraneous mental gymnastics," before turning his face back to the plastic explosive he was breaking into pieces.

And that was as good as having a flashing neon sign screaming _Warning!_ hung over the blond head. Gerry shot a questioning look in Napoleon's direction, but he shook his head silently in response: _get out fast_ seemed the best option for the time being, so he let Kuryakin keep at his work and crossed his fingers that no sudden meltdowns would occur.

A short time later, Illya announced that he was finished preparing the explosives, so Napoleon nodded, "Okay, now we can get out of the cell. What about these little beauties you selected?" He drew the keys from his pockets and held them up to display the set of colors.

Kuryakin blinked several times. "The… deep red opens the weapons cabinet in the guardroom just outside the cell. The black… is for a—a truck in the garage immediately above us." Another few blinks. "The last… is for a keyhole outside the garage door. It… it should lock every point of entry to the building so Park and his cronies stay put until U.N.C.L.E. arrive to take them in."

"Alright. Red, firearms; black, truck; green, lockdown." He grinned. "Excellent selection there, partner."

The flash of a rather fake smile. "Yes… red, black… green."

"You have a problem with green?"

"No… no, not that I can recall just now…"

Napoleon scratched at his cheek and waited a moment or two. When Illya did not seem inclined to expound on the comment, he rubbed his hands together and declared, "Alright, time for a brilliant plan."

"And peanut butter."

"Huh?"

Illya sniffed. "While you were zoning out and creepily staring at me, Gerry and I decided that the weakest spots of the door appear to be the slots and near the hinges. With something sticky—for instance, peanut butter—we ought to be able to adhere some of the explosive to those spots and improve our chances of blasting through." He shrugged. "We can likely succeed by using more explosive at any given spot on the door, but it would not hurt to reduce our risk of failure and/or injury."

"And how are we getting your improvised adhesive device?"

"With our fingers crossed," Ogola asserted. The secretary headed to the door as Illya shuffled himself and the explosives around to keep the latter hidden. Gerry rapped at the upper slot with a couple of knuckles and, when it slid open, stood on his toes to get a better view of Oleg peering in. "Hiya, buddy. I was promised a last meal. If Andy's a man of his word, a peanut butter sandwich should be involved."

The slot slapped shut and Gerry turned back with a shrug, urging, "Fingers crossed, kiddly-winks."

A few minutes later, the lower slot opened and something in plastic wrap was shoved through before the slot clapped closed again. Gerry brought it over to the table, fumbled with the wrapper for a moment, peeled back the upper slice of bread, and cackled gleefully.

"Holy anelloni, Batman, I can't believe it frickin' worked." He brought the booty over to the man with the explosives. "Your adhesive, my liege."

Illya grinned and accepted the proffered sandwich. "Well, Napoleon, at what point in your brilliant plan can we set the fun part?"

Solo stroked his chin in thought. "As soon as I tell you what the plan is. I'm thinking… blast open the door. Illya and I will incapacitate Adam and Oleg in some way, and Gerry can help disarm them. Ger, how are you with guns?"

"Depends on what the goal is," the secretary half-shrugged. "I can hold onto it and try to look intimidating, but I can't aim and fire as fast as is usually desirable. Also, people don't take us short folk very seriously, so I probably wouldn't look that intimidating."

"Okay. We'll open the weapons cabinet, check it quick, and try to make sure we all have something before we go upstairs. If possible, it would be better to just try and sneak into the truck unnoticed. If the sneaking goes awry, though, at least we'll have something to confront the Thrushes upstairs with."

Illya muttered in review, "Blast, wrangle, weapons, upstairs."

"Once we're up there—Gerry, do you remember seeing how they opened or closed the door for the vehicle you came in?"

"I couldn't say for sure which was the 'open' button and which was the 'close' one," Ogola said, "but there were two buttons and each of them made the door move in some direction."

"Okay, okay… Illya, how'd you feel about opening the door?"

The Russian nodded. He'd be most likely to be able to read any important labels on the buttons, so it made sense.

"I'll be at the wheel, then, and Gerry will get in with me. You open the door, join us in the truck, and—"

"No."

"No?"

"As you and Gerry will already be in the truck, it would make sense for me to also seal off the building, seeing as I would still be outside the vehicle." Illya glanced at the floor for a moment of thought. "You drive out, I walk out. I use the… green key to close all the doors and such, then catch up with you." He smirked. "Don't drive too fast."

Solo frowned at the idea of letting someone else be the last one out. "Maybe we should—"

"It is a fine plan as it is Napoleon. We knew you'd come up with something daring yet achievable. Well done."

Napoleon couldn't repress a chuckle. "Is that your way of saying 'shut up, we're doing it'?"

"Yes. You should be so proud of my effort at tact."

Solo accordingly handed the green key over to Kuryakin and said, "Let's get the explosives set. How are we setting them off once they're attached to the door?"

Illya slipped the key into the breast pocket of his pajamas. "Very quickly."

Gerry added, "We're using three pieces of explosive, and we have about four seconds before they go off once they're in contact with the spark. Attach a piece of plastic, get the spark going with the Velcro, and attach the Velcro to the plastic with a little more peanut butter."

"You attach the plastic one at the upper hinge," Kuryakin told Solo, "Gerry attaches the one on the lower slot, and I attach the one on the middle hinge. Adhere the Velcro as Gerry said, once you've rubbed the bits together and achieved a spark. Gerry should fit most easily under the bed, and you and I will take shelter best we beneath the table."

Napoleon gave a nod, snapped off the listening devices attached to the communicator they'd been left with, and stuck the communicator in his key-less pocket. "And as soon as it's gone boom, we run through and so on and so forth."

Moments later, the bits of plastic explosive mask were stuck to the door, and Napoleon commented, "My kindergarten teacher would be impressed by our innovative use of peanut butter, I'm sure," before a pulse of static drew his and Gerry's attention to the ceiling.

 _"Kuryakin, how are we feeling today?"_

Illya pressed the plastic a bit more securely by the hinge and returned dully, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that plotting your death has been keeping me in high spirits."

 _"Thank you."_

Another pulse of static signaled the end of the odd little interview.

At Napoleon's suspicious glance, Illya huffed, "I was joking, of course. It will be far more enjoyable to think of him rotting in prison for life than to allow him the mercy of an early grave. We have our plan, Napoleon, and I will fulfill my role."

"When are we going?" Gerry piped up.

Solo glanced at the nonexistent watch on his wrist and judged that now seemed as good a time as any, so they pre-ripped the Velcro, collectively attempted not to look surprised at how well the peanut butter held up the explosive, and on Kuryakin's count ("Three, two, one—") set the sparks. They smushed the strips by the plastic, took cover, and

 _BAM_

went the door. Solo was the first through the newly created aperture, entering the guardroom as the sound of an alarm (presumably set off by the explosion) blared. Adam was sprawled on the floor near the door, so Napoleon focused on the slack-jawed but still standing Oleg, rushing to tackle the guard down before he could properly react.

Gerry came over then and relieved Oleg of his nightstick and handgun as Napoleon pinned his arms, and Illya focused on the wall of buttons and switches, promptly finding what he was looking for and turning off the alarm. The intercom speaker on the wall clicked.

 _"What's going on in there?"_

Solo kept his arms clamped around the still-conscious guard and, as soon as Ogola had stuffed the T.H.R.U.S.H. uniform beret into Oleg's mouth, Kuryakin pressed the speaker button. He affected Adam's voice as best he could but coughed a bit to compensate for his imperfect impression when he said, "Sir, the—" Cough. "—er, Oleg thought it would be okay to use a fork to—" Hack, wheeze. "—clear out the toaster—"

 _"Oh, good god, you fools! Fix it and stop making such a racket before our guests get the impression that you're incompetent."_

Cough, cough. "Yes, sir." Illya flicked off the intercom and met Oleg's glare with a smirk before approaching and taking the two sets of handcuffs from the conscious guard's belt. He glanced to Napoleon. "We cuff him to the table leg and leave the gun on the tabletop. If he moves too much, the gun falls off. Perhaps it accidentally fires, allowing a bullet to ricochet in this small room."

Solo grinned. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

Ogola set down the gun on the center of the table as Kuryakin and Solo wrestled Oleg over to his place of rest. Napoleon pulled the guard's wrists to either side of the leg and Illya cuffed them together. They did the same with his ankles but, finding the cuffs too small to go round the ankles, Illya slipped the ends of the cuffs through the eyelets in the boots, clicked them shut, and shrugged.

"Good enough," Solo agreed, and Kuryakin nodded before moving the gun closer to the edge of the table. They cuffed Adam's wrists and ankles in a similar manner but left him where he was, as he didn't seem inclined to move for some time yet, and Illya took his handgun.

Napoleon took the key to the weapons cabinet to check its contents and noted with chagrin, "This seems a tad overenthusiastic."

Illya and Gerry came over to survey the collection of semiautomatics, the latter giving a low whistle.

"We want them alive for U.N.C.L.E. to recover," Napoleon decided, taking a pistol since that was the only weapon that could be feasibly operated with one hand. He shut the cabinet door. "Gerry, take Oleg's nightstick and stay close to me. Illya, keep Adam's gun but don't fire if you can avoid it."

Illya nodded, then shook his head rapidly and put his newly acquired handgun on the table. "Upon reconsideration, I should not be trusted with such a weapon for the present time."

Napoleon hoped he was successful in masking his grimace. First of all, he should have thought of that himself. Second of all, it was probably not the best sign that Illya himself was bringing up the point. "Okay, you can take Adam's nightstick then."

A nod. "Shall I go up first?"

"What? No!"

"If Gerry is to stay close to you, it would not be safe for him if you go first. Also, as the plan is for you to exit the building in the lorry—that is, 'truck'—you will be sitting ducks until I can get the door open, assuming that the garage door is reinforced, as it likely is. It is reasonable for me to go first, so I have a head start to the door-opening switch before you start for the truck."

"That's true—" Before Napoleon could get any further, Illya was already out the door and silently padding up the stairs. Yelling after him seemed like it might attract unwanted attention from whoever might have been up there, so he sighed a bit and mused, "Did I hear wrong, Ger, or did you in the recent past say I was the senior agent on this case?"

"I guess blind obedience from your subordinates is a skill you acquire over time, _bello_."

Napoleon sighed again. "Well, follow me. I can trust you to follow me and stick close, can't I?"

"Like peanut butter to a cell door, sugar-pop."

Solo set off for the narrow stairwell, starting up as Kuryakin's feet vanished from his sight, and Ogola accordingly kept to the stair just behind the senior agent. At the top, Napoleon peered up through the hole in the floor that joined the Cell level to the Garage level of the building. He scanned the space, dominated by a truck, a sedan, and piles of stuff: a bunch of tires in one corner and stacks of boxes in another.

A setup similar to the one below (wall of buttons, table, etc.) occupied part of the wall between the tires and the boxes—and a T.H.R.U.S.H. guard was lying under the table. Nearby was a familiar pajama-clad figure and a second guard. The latter was in the midst of drawing his gun when the former calmly used the nightstick to whack the weapon away, jabbed the guard in the neck with his knuckles, and proceeded to heft the man over a stack of tires and let him drop head-and-hands-first through the stack.

Gerry leaned up to whisper, "Want me to check downstairs to see if Mr. Kuryakin left his sense of self-preservation lying around somewhere, sir?"

"Just ask him to get in an elevator and he'll find it in a hurry," Napoleon whispered back.

Once the second guard seemed adequately incapacitated, Illya turned back to the stairs from below and briefly motioned toward the black and gray truck sitting across the room before moving in the direction he'd just indicated. Napoleon and Gerry followed, arriving at the cab of the truck a second or two after Illya reached a control panel by the garage door, and they climbed in. Solo started the engine as the garage door tilted open, cursed the manual transmission, mentally thanked his manual transmission expert/official British person Mark Slate for his transmission of tips and tricks, and eased the truck out of the building as soon as the opening was large enough.

Solo kept the vehicle rolling along, not wanting to hinder their speedy exit by hitting the brake but keeping the pace slow enough that Kuryakin should easily be able to catch up with an easy jog. He kept glancing at the rearview mirrors to check on the Russian's progress, and Ogola soon voiced the driver's concern: "I don't think he's coming, man."

That confirmation of his own thoughts was enough for Napoleon to halt the truck and hop out, running back to the building they'd just departed. Once he was near enough to speak without shouting, he could see that the key had been inserted in its place and turned, and he could hear Illya quietly muttering. Napoleon tried to cut in, "Illya, we're done here. Come on."

Illya's eyes stayed on the key. He continued murmuring flatly, as if nobody had attempted to interrupt him. "'We are exerting ourselves only to return to the same spot…'"

"What?"

"'…it's surely the road of "alases" we are following…'"

"As apropos as Aristophanes quotations may be, now is not the—"

"'…what can we do? Nothing whatever but bite and scratch…'"

"Illya, do you really want to wait and see if Park has an 'override' button in there? Let's go."

Napoleon grabbed him by an arm but, when the attached person wouldn't be budged, quickly resorted to foisting the smaller man over his shoulders and running them both back to the truck, the passenger mumbling all the way. Gerry evidently anticipated their arrival, as the passenger side door opened just as they reached it; Napoleon deposited the third of their trio into the seat, slammed the door, and dashed around to resume his spot at the steering wheel. He floored the gas pedal to make up for the bit of time they'd lost but had only covered about a hundred feet when—

 _BOOM!_

Gerry yelped, Napoleon white-knuckled the steering wheel in an effort to keep them moving in a moderately straight direction, and Illya finally ceased his mutterings.

"You alright?" Solo asked once his ears stopped ringing.

Ogola grunted a bit as he pulled himself into a more upright position. "Yeah, but I think I'll put on my seatbelt now." A click signaled fulfilment of that thought. "And for the rest of all time forever."

Solo silently seconded the idea by one-handedly securing himself with his own seatbelt, then glanced across to the opposite side of the cab. "You might want to buckle in too, Illya. And as our duly designated explosives expert, any ideas on what happened back there?"

A moment of hesitation as Kuryakin surveyed the rearview mirrors, then, "It exploded."

Napoleon snorted. "Spontaneous combustion, you think?"

Illya shrugged, and his uncharacteristic disinterest in anything even vaguely combustible jogged Napoleon's memory of the odd little recitation of yester-minute. And how he was fixated on the key. And had been emotionally unstable of late. And had seemed set to hang around a building that would explode about a minute later—

"Don't tell me you set that up."

Illya nodded. "Very well."

Napoleon dragged a hand down his face before looking back to the blond. "Oh my god, Illya—there were people in there!"

"There were."

"We were going to send a team to recov—they didn't have to die!"

"We all have to die, Napoleon."

"That wasn't your call to make!"

"What wasn't my call to make?"

Solo took his focus off the windshield to take a good look at Kuryakin's face, and the genuine lack of comprehension on that countenance was so complete—the potential for Illya's having deliberately done something so strong—the possibility that he had intended to go up with the building seemed so real—the likelihood that Illya was having violence-ridden blackouts seemed so unpleasantly far from zero—that Napoleon's stomach flipped and he had to pull the truck over to get a hold of himself.

Just as he had rested his forehead on the steering wheel to take a few breaths, a sudden gust of coldness blew into the cab and he looked up again to find Illya had shoved open the passenger door and was vomiting onto the side of the road. Gerry fumbled around the glove compartment and found a moderately clean rag in there, which he handed over to Illya once he seemed to have finished.

The Russian wiped his mouth, chucked the cloth back into the glove compartment, and drew the cab door shut. He let his head drop to his hands and said, "Wherever we are going, let us go there."

Napoleon drummed his fingers on the wheel for several moments before offering tentatively, "You don't remember what just happened."

"No, I… I remember now. I think."

"What happened, then?"

"I forgot."

"You just said you remember—"

"Yes. I mean, I remember that I forgot… forgot to ask about the keys. There were two of the light blue keys: one was to seal the exits, the other was to activate a self-destruct mechanism. They… the colors looked the same to me. I… I took one of them with the intention that I would ask you to replace it with the appropriate color if necessary. I forgot to ask."

"Wha—Illya, there weren't any light blue keys marked on the map. That key was green."

"I'm colorblind, Napoleon—I can't see all the—oh, _ya katastrofa_ , Napoleon. _U menya net glaz, u menya net mozga, u menya net sily_ …"

Ogola tapped Solo on the shoulder and, as Kuryakin rubbed his forehead and continued on in Russian, said quietly, "Give me the communicator. I'll call Bai and Wayside, and you keep driving."

Napoleon silently did as asked, and a moment later Gerry said, "Open channel D."

 _"Channel D."_

"Wayside? Ogola. We're out, driving on a country road. The trackers should still be working. Where do we go?"

Quiet, then: _"Proceed until you come across the first available right turn. Make the turn, then stay on that road. It'll take you to Pyatigorsk. Anton and I will meet you there and escort you to a satellite office."_

"Pyatigorsk?" Napoleon, who could just hear Wayside's side of the conversation from his vantage point, echoed.

 _"Report, Ogola."_ The order overlapped with Solo's muttering, so Napoleon assumed she hadn't heard his eloquent contribution.

"We're all three out. Park's building has been destroyed due to an error made under pressure. Minor injuries sustained." Gerry glanced to his side and noted that Illya had progressed to softly muttering and rocking himself to and fro gently. He leaned a little more toward Napoleon and lowered his voice as he added, "Is there any psych staff at the Pyatigorsk office? It might be a good idea for us to have a little check-in before embarking on any transatlantic odysseys."

Another piece of quiet, then: _"There's at least one nurse on-duty at all times. No dedicated psych staff, but one of the translators is a certified counselor. If that's not enough, I can look into area hospitals."_

Ogola looked to Solo with a questioning expression. Napoleon eyed Illya, recognized his current behavior as being a self-soothing ritual he'd seen while monitoring the Russian's dorm room a couple of months ago, and decided, "A counselor should be fine."

Gerry relayed the verdict to Wayside.

 _"Okay. Is Kuryakin available to help read the signs, or should I give landmarks for a place we can meet up?"_

Gerry put a hand over the speaker on the communicator and asked Napoleon, "Is it okay if I ask Mr. Kuryakin, or d'you think bugging him would make it worse?"

Napoleon considered it and, reasoning that the blond had seemed functional during most of the action, offered, "Maybe having a job to do would help him."

The secretary leaned closer to Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin—Illya?"

Kuryakin gave a start as soon as Ogola patted at his shoulder. "Hah? _Chto eto_?"

Ogola smiled slightly. "Hey, kid. We could do with your mad Cyrillic skills."

"Ah—oh, reading—yes, yes, of course."

Gerry uncovered the speaker—"Here's Kuryakin for you."—and handed the communicator over. "It's Wayside. We're setting up a rendezvous."

"Yes, of course. Hello, Ms. Wayside. …We approach from the East, so R264? …Excellent." He spoke half to Napoleon as he said, "When we make the right, we are on R264. Make a right onto E50, left onto Fabrichnaya Ulitsa, first petrol—that is, gas station on the left. …Yes, we'll wait for you, then. …Did you need to talk to either of the others again? …Goodbye."

Illya closed the channel and handed the communicator back to Gerry, who prompted, "Fasten your seatbelt."

As he buckled up, Illya stated, "We are meeting Mr. Bai and Ms. Wayside at a gas station across the street from a prison. It seems ironic somehow, but I am at a loss for witty comments on the matter."

They proceeded to Pyatigorsk and were met by Bai and Wayside in a small sedan, and both vehicles were driven out to Doletskaya's Tailor Shop, as a captured T.H.R.U.S.H. vehicle was certainly a prize worth inspecting.

Once the truck had been handed off to an agent from the U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk office, they headed inside and were met by a receptionist and the head of the office, Svetlana Dmytryk, who helped the receptionist hand out the badges. A nurse labelled by her nametag as Phuong emerged from the hallway behind the desk just as the process was being concluded and asked, "Who is minor injuries?"

Solo and Kuryakin pointed at each other: "He is."

Ogola briefly poked a finger in Kuryakin's direction, so Phuong declared, "Majority says it is you, so I will see you first."

After sparing a betrayed glare for Gerry's benefit, Illya protested, "Mr. Solo was hit in the head, so I believe he ought to take priority."

Phuong produced a penlight from her back pocket and shined it into the unpleasantly surprised Mr. Solo's eyes. "Look up. Right. Left. Down. Straight." Another click and the light was extinguished and replaced. She held up a finger and moved it around. "Any blurring, Mr. Solo?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Only this blond one here."

"Dizziness? Trouble balancing? Unexplained change in sleep pattern?"

"No, no, and the change is temporary and easily explicable, given the recent circumstances."

"Irritability or other mood changes? Mental fog?"

"No."

"Okay. If you stay fine, you should still maybe see your physician when you go home. Any change at all while you are here, you tell me."

"Yes, ma'am."

Phuong turned back to Illya. "Your turn. What's wrong with you?"

Illya thought a moment before raising his hands by way of an answer.

Phuong took the one that looked worse off and asked, "What did you do, huh?" Catching sight of the bandage on the wrist, she added, "Why only on this part? Is this the worst?"

The Russian glanced to Solo. "I'd been meaning to ask you that."

Napoleon frowned. "Why I didn't bandage them all, or why there's anything to be bandaged?"

Silence.

"You don't remember how it happened?"

Another pause before the reluctant admission. "My head's been a bit—" He flinched back as Phuong's penlight made an abrupt reappearance. "I don't have a concussion! I am on an antidepressant and stopped taking it suddenly!"

"Ah—that might do it." The penlight was mercifully withdrawn.

"Yes, it might and it apparently has. Would you mind directing me to the restroom?"

Phuong tilted her chin as she scrutinized the Russian's face. "Nausea?"

"Given a few more moments' delay, I can answer that without words."

She gestured to the hall beyond the gate. "First door on the left."

The automatic gate barely swung open in time for Kuryakin to march through without breaking his stride.

Phuong looked over the remaining group. "Anyone else injured?"

Gerry grinned, "Nope. Miraculously enough, the black guy emerged completely unscathed."

"The meeting room has the most chairs," Dmytryk offered. "We can wait there while Phuong takes care of Mr. Kuryakin." She turned to the receptionist. "Edouard, have Mandy Stevenson from Translation join us, please."

"Yes, Ms. Dmytryk."

* * *

 _U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk meeting room_

"Now, Mr. Ogola," Bai started, clasping his hands on the table. "Veronica mentioned you said something about an error causing the destruction of Andrew Park's… facility. Could you and Mr. Solo elaborate on that?"

Napoleon supplied, "There were several color-coded keys. Illya had to pick a few quickly. He's colorblind so he mixed up a couple of the colors, mistaking the 'self-destruct' key for the 'lockdown' key. He's been under a lot of physical and mental stress, so he forgot to ask Gerry or me to double-check the keys he'd grabbed."

Bai nodded slowly at Solo's story, then looked to Ogola. "Can you confirm this version of events?"

"Based on what I know," Gerry said, "that sounds right."

"We will, as a matter of completeness, have to check Mr. Kuryakin's medical record and speak to him as well, but for now I am satisfied that you all acted appropriately. I will, however, have to advise Mr. Waverly that Mr. Kuryakin should be placed under guard until he has had sufficient training and made adequate improvement in his mental health. We were lucky this time that no innocent lives were lost, but we cannot risk having him unexpectedly out in the field again."

Despite almost being dissolved into a puddle of relief at this outcome, Napoleon gathered enough of his brain cells to ask, "A guard, Mr. Bai?"

The CEA smiled at the wary assertion. "Nothing dire, Mr. Solo. What I will recommend is that you, Dancer, and Slate are reassigned to monitoring Kuryakin—with his knowledge of it, this time. He goes about his regular activities, checks in with you, informs you of any unusual events, and does not go anywhere out of the ordinary without supervision. In that way, Mr. Kuryakin is safe, and you and your friends get another assignment under your belts."

Wayside chimed in, "We should probably get some calls made, Anton. You take Waverly and I'll take the Russian police. I'll start with the Pyatigorsk department and work up if necessary."

"You can use my office," Dmytryk said, standing up. "Solo and Ogola can wait for Mandy here and brief her on why Kuryakin needs her." She addressed the stayers-behind. "Once you have briefed Miss Stevenson, you can press the square button on the phone." A gesture to the desk phone on the table. "It will connect you to a secretary who can help you get food and a change of clothes, shower, a place to rest… so on, so on."

Seconds after the senior officers had left, the meeting room door slid open again and a young lady with brown hair and a notepad came through.

"Mandy Stevenson, I presume," Napoleon offered, getting to his feet.

"Yes." She came over and shook each of their hands with a warm smile before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. "You can call me Mandy."

"And I'm Napoleon."

"Gerry," the last person asserted.

"I am not a psychiatrist, a psychologist, or a full-time counselor. I cannot prescribe medication. I am a full-time translator, but I'm a certified counselor in the U.S. and am allowed by our employer to treat any U.N.C.L.E. worker worldwide in the absence of more qualified personnel."

Napoleon accepted the disclaimer with a nod.

Mandy put her notepad on the table and took a pen from her blazer pocket, clicking it. "Tell me what you can about Illya. I got a very small amount of background from Dr. Boateng while you were making your way over here, but of course he didn't want to give too much detail since Illya's in a safe place and being closely watched, so he's unlikely to be an immediate threat to himself or others."

"What kind of stuff do you want to know?"

"Oh, any recent events that might have affected him. Observations on his demeanor or behavior, especially anything out of the ordinary. Anything you'd be comfortable sharing and that might help me address any concerns when I speak with him."

Gerry waved at Napoleon. "You know him better, so you start."

Napoleon inclined his head. "Alright. Events. His parents died suddenly a few weeks ago. As he mentioned to Nurse Phuong, he's been on antidepressants recently. We were abducted by T.H.R.U.S.H. and just escaped."

Mandy jotted down a few things. "That's quite a bit, isn't it?"

"Observations. Increase in alcohol consumption. Decrease in appetite. More volatile, emotionally. There's been a couple of times when he's gotten this kind of blank look on his face." He motioned with his hands a bit. "Well, sometimes he does that on purpose, but in the past few days it seemed less like a poker face and more like he was… I don't know, in his head? Not entirely connecting with the world?"

"Dissociating?" Mandy suggested.

"I don't know. One time, he punched out a light. Lots of scratches on his hands; some glass hit a vein or something and he claimed it didn't hurt. Another time, he was just talking to himself and I was trying to talk to him but he didn't seem to notice me at all."

"Memory lapses," Gerry put in quietly.

"Yes—yes—actually, he seems to have trouble remembering what happens around the times when he… dissociates, if that's what it is." Napoleon tapped his fingertips together in thought. "I guess that's the priority for getting you involved: make sure he won't get so out-of-it that he'll hurt himself somehow on the way home, and tell us how we should deal with it if he does… have another incident."

The phone before Dmytryk's former place at the table beeped and Mandy leaned over to press a button. "Yes?"

 _"This is Phuong here."_

"This is Mandy. Can I go in now?"

 _"No. Mr. Kuryakin passed out."_

Napoleon stood up, Gerry whacked him in the arm with a quiet "chill, kid", and he sat down again as Phuong continued, _"He is awake now but I want him to have a few minutes of quiet before you come over."_

"Ten minutes, maybe?"

 _"That is fine. I will call again if something changes that."_

Mandy switched off the connection and Napoleon asked, "Say, you speak Russian?"

"Uh-huh."

"Think you could translate something for me?"

"Probably. What is it?"

"Pardon my accent—and, if it's a string of curses, pardon my language—but… _u menya net glaz, u menya net mozga_ ," Solo attempted to repeat what he'd caught of Kuryakin's comments in the truck.

Mandy tilted her head. "It means, 'I have no eyes, I have no brain.' Did Mr. Kuryakin say that?"

"Just something I overheard," Napoleon grinned, figuring he'd probably said enough to prep her for her upcoming appointment. When she nonetheless hummed and scribbled some more on her notepad, he asked, "Would you be an American or a Canadian, Mandy?"

"American, and I almost was assigned to the same office as you, but I thought I might get more excitement out of someplace beyond the U.S." She sighed a bit. "This is the most excitement I've had in the four months I've been here." The translator leaned forward with her elbows on the table, smiling hopefully at Napoleon. "Is the New York office more exciting?"

"Well, uh, I find it reasonably invigorating, but I've never asked the folks in Translation how they feel about it."

She sighed again and sat back. "I guess it's inherently more exciting for you in Enforcement."

"Gerry here's in Secretarial," Napoleon offered, and she accordingly turned her hopeful grin to the other man.

Gerry scratched at his head. "Don't know if 'exciting' would be my first choice of adjective, but I'm never bored. Would 'not-boring' be a step up for you?"

"Yes! I mean, I just assumed somewhere foreign would be more interesting, but I guess that doesn't apply to a satellite office. I mean, there's really no recruiting for Enforcement going on here—"

"You, uh, want to be in Enforcement?" Napoleon cut in.

"Oh, yes! I think I'd be very good at it, but there are only about five Enforcement guys permanently based here, and the rest are like you: just popping in and out when an assignment calls for it. Since U.N.C.L.E. has sort of a ' _don't call us, we'll call you_ ' policy when it comes to recruitment, and none of the Enforcement guys around here will give me the time of day, I can't figure out how to get my foot in the door."

Napoleon tugged at his collar briefly: that quizzical expression being pointed in his direction suggested that he seemed the best available candidate for a doorman. "Well, well—Ms., uh, Ms. Dmytryk mentioned something about a shower and a change of clothes and I'm feeling rather ripe at the moment… which button…?"

Gerry snickered, Napoleon cuffed him in the ankle with his foot, and Mandy smiled indulgently as she returned her hand to the phone and pressed in the button. She spoke in Russian briefly, listened to the reply, and rejoined with "okay" before sitting back again.

"Nydia will be in shortly to get you fixed up." The smile broadened. "I'm sure we'll have the opportunity to chat a little more before you leave for New York."

* * *

 _U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk medical room_

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm Mandy Stevenson. You can call me Mandy. May I call you Illya?"

"I suppose that depends on what you are."

"I'm a translator."

Illya frowned. "I need a translator? Can I not speak coherently in whatever language is required?"

"Well, my main work is in Translation, but I'm also a certified counselor and I'm here with you in that capacity. I understand you've experienced some traumas lately and have been exhibiting symptoms of psychological distress."

"Says who?"

"The folks you came in with. And Dr. Boateng confirmed that you are a patient of his."

Illya rolled his eyes away with a sigh and set to muttering in Russian.

"Illya… do you really think they'd post a translator in Pyatigorsk who didn't speak Russian?"

He slowly met her gaze again.

She smiled a bit.

He frowned a moment. " _Ty hovoryt' po-ukrayins'ky_?"

"Uh… Ukrainian?"

Nod.

"No, I'm afraid I don't speak Ukrainian. English, French, Portuguese, Russian."

An aborted laugh emerged as a soft snort as he looked away and set to muttering in Ukrainian.

* * *

 _U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk meeting room_

"I talked with Mr. Kuryakin." Mandy chuckled. "That is, I talked _to_ him a lot and _with_ him very little, and his medical record filled in the rest."

"Is he okay to travel?" Bai asked.

"Maybe. How does he handle travel? Any anxiety about flying or crowds or anything like that?"

Solo offered, "He mentioned once that he finds it unpleasant, but I'm not sure what exactly he meant by that in terms of what bothers him and in what way and how badly."

Mandy had been addressing Bai, but she now turned to Solo. "So he talks to you then. You should find out the particulars of the unpleasantness."

Bai put in, "So he is—how should I put it… touch and go?"

Mandy held up a finger. "History of psychological disorder." Another finger. "Abrupt stopping of medication." Another finger. "Sudden deaths in the family." Another finger. "Being kidnapped. Any one of those can get you scrambled in the head—which reminds me." She turned back to Napoleon again. "I should probably have a little chat with you as well, Mr. Solo. And Mr. Ogola."

Napoleon chuckled. "You know, oddly enough I've hardly given the abduction itself a second thought. I'm more worried about our friend of the four fingers." After a few moments of staring down Mandy, Solo insisted, "I'm fine."

She nodded. "Okay. Now, Mr. Kuryakin has already had problems with memory and temper. More stress could easily cause another episode of one or both of those. What we must determine is whether it is more stressful for him to be here, or to take the trip to New York." She motioned to Napoleon. "Hop to it."

As Solo headed off, he could hear Mandy add to Bai, "Whether he returns now or later, though, I'd seriously recommend he see Dr. Boateng as soon as he gets there. I'd trust him under the close supervision of you and Ms. Wayside during the trip, but beyond that it would be dangerous to ignore the possibility of ongoing psychosis…"

Napoleon softly closed the door behind him as he glanced around the room. It was very small with windows opening to a small courtyard that seemed to have potential as a garden (in spring and summer that potential was likely realized), and the walls were a calming blue. A side table composed of three shelves was set near an IV setup that was set near a bed in which there was an unquestionably unamused Russian.

The American quirked a smile. "I was going to ask how you're feeling, but I think that expression says it all."

"I must say I resent that, of the two times we've confronted T.H.R.U.S.H. together, I seem to get the worst of it."

Napoleon perched himself at the foot of the bed. He gestured at the IV drip. "Did Phuong tell you what that's for?"

"Yes, but I wasn't paying attention. Given my acute increase in alcohol consumption, insufficient food intake, and that the food I was taking in was not gluten-free as I had thought it was, I assume it has something to do with dehydration or malnutrition or some combination thereof."

"Given that you passed out, one or both of those seems likely. Anyway, I have a quick opinion poll for you."

"Ah, so marketers have at last breached the impenetrable fortress that is U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk."

"Would you rather destress and decompress within the walls of the impenetrable fortress, or wing your way back to New York and de-whatever there?"

Illya frowned. It seemed more an expression of confusion than of contemplation, so Napoleon asked, "What's up?"

"I am allowed back to New York?"

Napoleon frowned back. "Your visa's still in order, far as I know."

"But—has it slipped your memory that I recently blew up several persons in a certain former T.H.R.U.S.H. hideout?"

"Ah. Based on what you told us, Gerry and I were able to vouch for the accidental nature regarding the procurement of the keys. And once it came time to use the last key—well, if we hadn't used it at that point, we'd have had several murderous T.H.R.U.S.H. agents on the loose. You made the snap decision to protect our lives, and potentially others'. It's unfortunate that it came at the expense of Park and his squad, but it was the right choice."

"Acci—Napo— _Mr. Solo_ , is our chosen profession one that lends itself to tolerance of… _accidents_?"

" _Illya_. Under the circumstances—"

"How is this to work? Is our uncle to sweep it under his rug? I took lives. Granted, they were not overly worthy lives and I will certainly not mourn them, but there is an order to things. Charges to be brought."

"Our industrious Mr. Bai and Ms. Wayside have been working the phones since we got here. Park and his… associates… were known and wanted criminals internationally. Russian authorities have declared it an accident and have made it clear that they'd prefer not to be pestered about the matter anymore."

A blond eyebrow arched. "Rather quick on the draw, aren't they?"

"We, uh, rather suspect that they'd been surveilling Park's building and were not exactly displeased to… see them go."

The other eyebrow went up. "They knew we were in there?"

"They neither confirmed nor denied when Mr. Bai asked. And before _you_ ask, Mr. Bai has conferred with Mr. Waverly, and he agrees that everyone acted to the best of their abilities. Once we write it up and submit a report, it should be case closed."

Illya leaned further back into the mattress and closed his eyes with a sigh. "This seems highly questionable from a moral standpoint." He looked to his visitor. "At least tell me I have been taken off the Enforcement training track until such time as I no longer need to be confined to a psych ward."

"You're not being confined to a psych ward."

Illya held up the blanket half-covering him. "Do you know what this is? This is a suicide-proof material." He maneuvered it with his hands. "Cannot be torn. Cannot be twisted into a noose. You looked around the room. The lack of decoration is no accident. The IV is only here since the nurse insisted, but _that_ —" Pointing at a camera discreetly embedded in a window frame. "—Na— _Mr. Solo_ , I put my free hand near the needle one time and Nurse Phuong careened in here like you will not believe."

"First of all, I don't see anything unprofessional about your calling me 'Napoleon', so please stop 'Mr. Solo'-ing me. Second of all, Mandy says you're free to go home as soon as you think you can handle the flight."

Illya frowned. "Then why was I placed in a room like this and compelled to interact with a counselor?"

"You're in a medical room because you're physically ill. I hate to dwell on things, Illya, but healthy people don't faint for no reason."

A grimace from the Russian.

"As for the counselor bit, I'm afraid that's on me and Ger. When you were just standing there at Park's door—and then when the place went up in a fireball—well, between that and everything else that had happened to you lately, I was worried that you might have… intended to go up in a blaze of glory, as it were."

"Suicide?" A scoff. "Don't be daft. I'd never go through with it." He added under his breath, "Even if it may seem the logical course of action at some points."

The prolonged silence from the normally effusive American eventually drew Illya's attention, and the obvious tightness in Napoleon's face drew his concern. Solo finally stated, "I had a sister."

Given the context and the past tense (" _had_ a sister"), it didn't take a rocket scientist to connect the dots.

Drawing a blank on how to recover from his previous remark, Illya attempted, "Napoleon, I—you never told me you had a sister."

The brunet directed a humorless smile to the blanket. "You never told me you're colorblind. Call it even."

Illya hesitated a moment. "Forgive my harshness. Even if I am somewhat out of sorts, that is no excuse for me to—"

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad. Or to tell you not to say or think what you do. I'm telling you so you'll understand why I take it very seriously. And if you start to think you might go through with it, I'm asking you to tell someone. I don't care who. Just tell someone or stay with someone until you've changed your mind."

"Of course. But I promise—"

"Don't promise anything you can't stick to."

Illya leaned forward—glanced at the camera in the windowframe and leaned back—shook his head and leaned forward again until he could reach Napoleon's knee with his free hand. "I _promise_ I will never… go through with it. And in the event you do not believe that vow, I further promise that I will discuss this matter with Dr. Boateng and keep him apprised of any changes in my… mentality."

Napoleon gave the hand a quick squeeze before releasing it.

Illya leaned back again. "So I am free to go, you say?"

"Yes."

Illya blinked at him a few times, then moved his free hand to cover the entrance point of the IV. As Kuryakin had claimed, Phuong careened into the room faster than Solo could blink.

"Ah, Nurse," the Russian greeted calmly. "Please remove the drip. I am leaving."

Napoleon chuckled. "We, uh, do still need to get plane tickets, Illya."

"Then I suggest we get them before I have to work out a means of stowing away on the next outgoing flight." He turned to the nurse, gestured to the IV unit. "Will you be so kind?"

"Really, I'd prefer to wait until the doctor can come in, in a few hours—"

"As would I, but I assume your competence in applying this device extends to competence in removing it. I'd prefer it to be properly removed, of course, but I have no issue with detaching it myself if you decide not to lend your assistance."

Phuong looked at Napoleon while poking a finger in Illya's direction. "Is this one always a problem?"

Illya interjected with a withering smile, "I am not being a problem," letting the _'yet'_ remain implied.

"I want you to stay here until your tickets are ready. I will gather a few high-electrolyte drinks and some anti-nausea medication for you, but until then you stay with the IV." The nurse again poked her finger at Illya, this time speaking to the blond as she added, "If you tear it out, I will find some insidious way to ensure you regret it."

"I respect your use of adjective."

Phuong took this as an adequate vow of cooperation and accordingly left.

Napoleon got up from his spot on the bed. "I'm just going to pop out to let our traveling companions know that you're ready to go as soon as we can get a flight."

"I am ready now. I am willing to wait until we can get a flight."

"You have no choice but to wait until we can get a flight."

"I am taking the path of least resistance."

Napoleon moved closer to the head of the bed. "You sure you'll be okay?" he asked quietly.

"You mean, am I sure I'll not have a psychotic break on the voyage? As confident as I can be."

* * *

 _Mineralnye Vody Airport_

This wasn't quite how he was expecting the trip home to go. He'd expected trouble, of course, but this wasn't the right trouble.

Dmytryk had called up the head of U.N.C.L.E.-Moscow (who not-so-accidentally happened to keep up a few friendships with ex-KGB agents), and the section head had accordingly suggested to anticipate a long, miserable time in the security line. If they were patient, they would ultimately be permitted to keep their assorted belongings and proceed homeward without further harassment.

As it turned out, they were whipped past the security line almost before Bai could produce his U.N.C.L.E. identification. The group had barely finished exchanging befuddled expressions before a quartet of men in dark suits matter-of-factly slipped in and amongst them. This tactic was exactly the sort of thing that raised an agent's guards, and that instinct proved worthy when the suited-up men strode off and the New York-based group found themselves missing a person.

A person who was not happy about being rendered missing and was accordingly expressing his displeasure in the form of rapid-fire Russian. Wayside stepped up and, in somewhat more broken Russian, made an effort to support Kuryakin's protestations. Bai occasionally tossed in a _nyet_ or a _da_ as seemed appropriate, and Solo and Ogola attempted to insinuate themselves between Kuryakin and the suit brigade.

After a bit of back-and-forth, Kuryakin offered more conciliatory remarks to the men before adding to Wayside, "They are quite intent that I speak with them, so it will be easier for now if I comply. I do not believe they will attempt anything untoward."

Kuryakin asked something of Suit Man No. 1, who nodded and in a thick accent assured the group of U.N.C.L.E. associates, "We only talk with Mr. Kuryakin, yes? Only talk, and he will be returned to you, yes?"

"Yes. He will return," Solo repeated icily as Bai casually put his hands in his pockets to facilitate a casual display of his shoulder holster.

As he joined the suit-wearers as they departed en masse behind a door off a wide corridor, Illya flashed a smile Napoleon's way; between his pallor and the strain of the past few minutes, it was somewhat less reassuring than the blond had likely intended.

A quiet set over the others, and Solo and Ogola sort of raised their eyebrows at each other in a silent conversation, which succeeded in establishing that neither of them had a decent idea of what the hell was going on, so the former prompted, "Ms. Wayside…?"

Wayside, taking a position near the door, responded absently, "Solo."

"Uh, Ogola and I are just about sub-remedial in terms of Russian language skills, and we'd hate to jump to stereotypical conclusions on who those fellows were and what they want with Illya, so…?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm not sure, but my best guess would be SVR."

"Maybe FSB," Bai suggested, which Wayside shrugged at in a way that suggested she was pretty sure she was right, so he added, "but probably SVR."

"Oh." Solo clenched then quickly unclenched his fists. "Well. In either case… crap."

Another few moments of silence, then Ogola lightly nudged Solo's arm.

"Yeah, Ger?"

"I'm feelin' a little sub-remedial in acronyms here, bebop."

"I don't remember what they stand for, but if you're doing a 'where are they now' on the KGB, the FSB and SVR would be a good place to start."

"Oh. Crap."

About four hours later, the U.N.C.L.E. crew had missed the boarding time for their flight and was still missing one of their own. Wayside or Bai occasionally ventured closer to the door, then returned to the others to report that there was still talking going on in there.

As soon as a familiar figure emerged from the closed door, Solo virtually teleported over and accosted him with, "Are you okay? What happened? What'd they want?"

Kuryakin smiled the smile of someone who was just this side of collapsing on the floor, then clapped such a heavy hand on Solo's shoulder that the potential for a second fainting spell in the day seemed doubly likely.

"And a hearty 'hello' to you, too, Napoleon. They wanted to apologize for hindering our progress homeward, and to gift us with first-class seating on the next flight to New York, with stops in Moscow and London, departing from gate seven. We board in forty minutes."

Napoleon ran a glance along his other co-workers, who seemed onboard with his wary tone as he said, "How nice of them. That still answered almost zero of what I asked you."

Illya kept his hand on Napoleon's shoulder as if for support as he started pushing forward. "We are in the wrong terminal. We should get moving." Once they were a few feet from the door, he said quietly, "If you know who they are, you should guess that I cannot relay the details just now."

Napoleon put an arm around the blond and managed to have only a mild mental freak-out when Illya didn't protest. "They didn't threaten you or hurt you, did they? Can you tell me that, at least?"

"No threats. No hurting." A hollow laugh. "Perhaps they thought I was managing to look miserable enough on my own, without their aiding the process."

After these past couple of minutes of close proximity, Napoleon figured that the 'looking miserable' had been accompanied by some 'feeling miserable'. Assuming the men in the suits hadn't wanted that misery all over their shoes, hopefully he'd at least had the privilege of being miserable in a reasonably respectable receptacle.

"Mr. Bai," Solo said, "I don't suppose you or Ms. Wayside have some toothpaste or a little mouthwash on you."

Bai made a pitstop off to the side of the thoroughfare and rummaged in his bag while Kuryakin quipped, "Why, Napoleon, you don't think bile and reconstituted banana is a scent worthy of first class? You offend me."

"I only have toothpaste," Bai concluded, holding up the relevant thing. "You can swish with some water at the restroom sink. And Phuong said you could have another anti-nausea pill if the first did not seem to be working."

Illya patted Napoleon on the back and pulled away to take the mini tube of toothpaste and the pill and head into the nearest restroom, walking with a posture that was unusually upright even for him.

Napoleon looked to the senior agents. "What do you think?"

Wayside leaned against the wall opposite the men's restroom, so Solo joined her to allow for a more discreet conversation while Ogola and Bai lingered elsewhere so they looked less like a group of people plotting something.

"If they are who I think they are," Wayside answered, "there are a few possibilities. One, they're investigating Kuryakin for something. I don't really buy that, though, since U.N.C.L.E. just did a hell of a background check on him and we didn't turn up anything that seemed likely to be a Russian national security concern."

"Mr. Waverly mentioned Russia is, uh… taking its turn at being less than enthused about our uncle at the moment."

"That's the second possibility: they're trying to get him out of the U.N.C.L.E., either by talking him into resigning or hoping we'll just go away and leave him alone."

Solo raised his brows. "And what do you think they'd do if we'd left? It's not as if Illya couldn't manage to find his way onto a New York-bound plane independent of us."

"It would let them say, 'Look, those guys left you behind. Therefore, you would be better off without them.'"

"That's, uh… that sounds a little flimsy."

"That's why the most likely possibility is the third: they probably offered him a job with a government agency. If this was the first time they approached him, they were probably nice enough about it. He probably only seems as bad as he does because he's sick, and maybe concerned that they'll be less nice if they approach him again."

She smiled humorlessly. "Unless, of course, he's already accepted, but I'd find that possibility a little hard to believe. We cleared Kuryakin to work with us. Most of the folks we clear aren't overly excited about going in for a single nation's interests: they're either getting out of that line—you being former U.S. Army, for instance—or were never interested in the first place, which we think is Kuryakin's case."

Napoleon matched her grin. "Do you think they'll… _approach_ again?"

"Normally, I'd say 'yes'. But even though Russia isn't our number one fan right now, they are still a member nation of the U.N.C.L.E. and they'll come around to liking us again sometime." She chuckled. "I think once they start liking us, that's the U.K.'s cue to question our value. Then it's usually the U.S., or sometimes China—anyway, they might've given Kuryakin the ol' stink-eye for not asking permission before signing on with us, but I doubt if they'll do anything else. Soon as they once more approve of our existence, they'll be glad he's with us and they know it."

Illya emerged from the restroom a few minutes later, breath somewhat improved and a bit of moisture lingering around his sideburns and neck from some vigorous face-washing. This time he quietly refused Napoleon's support as they continued on their way to the appropriate terminal. Wayside collected their tickets from a worker at the counter of their gate, and they settled into the seating area to wait to be boarded.

Napoleon had barely taken the seat next to Illya when he noticed the man at the counter staring at him. As soon as the airline worker noticed Napoleon was returning his attention, he tilted his head slightly in invitation, so the American murmured that he'd be back in a minute, then got up as soon as the Russian grunted a bit in acknowledgement.

Solo glanced at the nametag printed in Cyrillic and Roman letters. "You beckoned, Piotr?"

Piotr motioned vaguely in Illya's direction. "Is he ill?"

Not certain how well a potentially ill passenger would be received and certainly not wanting to in any way jeopardize their exit, Napoleon thanked him for his concern and said, "Just a little tired."

He frowned at the slouching blond and informed Solo quite confidently, "He looks ill."

"You don't know what he looks like on a normal day, so I don't think you could really judge, friend."

A furrowed brow and a huffed-out sigh later: "Just say he's ill."

"No, really—" Napoleon broke off as the man motioned him to come closer, and he accordingly leaned in so he could whisper.

"If you say he is ill, I can have you board first, so he gets settled before the crowd boards. Maybe I can even have the people seated near the restroom trade seats with you, so he has better access." He leaned back with raised eyebrows.

"Oh! Why, yes, he is a bit under the weather—"

"Thank you."

The airline worker scooped up the phone on the desk, tapped a button, and spoke in Russian through the intercom feeding sound throughout the terminal. A middle-aged couple approached, and he presumably explained the situation to them, as they nodded and the middle-aged man patted Napoleon on the shoulder with a companionable, "Okay, okay," before withdrawing from the desk.

Piotr confirmed, "They agreed to trade seats with you and your friend." A glance to the clock on the board behind him. "I can let you board in five minutes."

"Airline employees are the true heroes in this world, Piotr."

"Remember that if you want a snack and I have to charge you five dollars for three cashews."

* * *

 _One week later_

Several days of observation in U.N.C.L.E.-New York's Medical section convinced Dr. Boateng that Kuryakin's psychological symptoms had been acute rather than chronic, and he was finally cleared to go home the day before the start of the spring semester. Waverly and Boateng agreed with Bai's suggestion to temporarily assign Solo, Dancer, and Slate as security detail for the Russian until he'd achieved more training (to protect himself from T.H.R.U.S.H. threats) and a more stable emotional state (to protect everyone else, given his growing proficiency with weapons and explosives).

Their return to the 81st Street apartment was somewhat less auspicious than Napoleon had hoped, as the evening consisted of doing a security sweep of the residence, having a dinner of plain rice since that was the only non-rancid food product present, cleaning the more deeply dust- or grime-covered portions of the joint, and checking their class schedules.

Then, sleep.

Sleep had been the plan, anyway, but half past one in the morning, Solo woke up again. He wasn't quite sure why, but his usual cause of late-night wakings was either a noise or being thirsty. He wasn't thirsty, so there must have been a noise. Upon further listening and a begrudging jaunt to the window that turned up no sign of sirens or outdoor disturbances, he trudged to the door and opened it just a crack to check for fallen items and/or uninvited guests.

It was only slightly reassuring when he found his housemate set up at the coffee table with laptop, textbook, and several notebooks at hand. Napoleon closed the door again with an internal sigh and took a few moments to decide how to terminate this unauthorized work session, then reopened the door and approached the situation.

"'Twas the night before school, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring… except for the resident workaholic." Napoleon plunked down cross-legged at the opposite end of the couch. "I thought you said you were going to bed. About three hours ago. Something about a long day meriting an early night."

"I did and I was, but I lost so much time over winter break that I thought it wise to do a bit more work now so it would not look as if I waited until the last minute to prepare." A melancholic sigh. "I never thought I'd be one to resort to cramming for school. Alas." He spared a final glance in Napoleon's direction before pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and returning his focus to the slideshow he was putting together on his laptop. "You have an earlier start to classes than I do. You can get another few hours of sleep."

"Not while you're sneakily attempting to pull an all-nighter."

"I was not being sneaky and it is not an attempt. I marched myself straight out here with no subterfuge whatsoever and I have every intention of following through."

"You need rest. Doctor's orders." Recalling that both a psychiatrist and an M.D. had made it quite clear that sleep was rather a big deal, especially for the immediate future, he amended, "Multiple doctors' orders."

"What I need is to not make a buffoon of myself in class tomor—today. It is my first time teaching a course on my own and I must set a strong precedent for the rest of the semester."

"Being alert and conscious would probably help with that."

"Having more than thirty percent of a slideshow at the ready would also help." Illya turned back to his laptop and readjusted his glasses again as they slid down his nose. "Go to sleep, Napoleon. I will work as quickly as possible and get some rest if I have time."

Napoleon frowned for a moment, then exclaimed in a loud enough voice to make Illya jump, "Oh, look, I found a distraction!" He produced the gift-wrapped package that he'd snuck into the living room and hidden behind his leg upon taking a place on the couch. "Found the poor thing still unwrapped in my sock drawer. I thought you'd have opened it when I was in Brazil."

Illya accepted the thing as the American moved it nearer. He turned it over in his hands a few times before informing it, "I was going to but I… missed you too much."

"You missed me?"

"Yes." He spared a glance to the brunet and issued a frown proportionate to the smile he'd observed. "I thought you'd have deduced that. Even if I expressed it rather sarcastically, I assumed you'd have been able to figure out that I missed and was… worried about you."

"I did, but it's nice to hear it directly." He paused a second as something else seeped in. "You were worried?"

Illya frowned a little harder at the gift. "Not if you're going to rub it in, I wasn't."

"Okay, I won't 'rub it in' then. It's just so rare that you admit anything like that."

"I'll try to do it more often, but don't get your hopes up."

"My hopes are always up."

"I know. It is one of your more obnoxious traits."

Napoleon thought he heard a mumbled _"and a reason why I like you"_ tacked on to the end, but it was smothered by the sound of ripping as Illya tore into the paper.

The paper was set aside as Illya got to the innards and read the title of the book he'd uncovered, " _A Christmas Carol_." He examined the binding and flipped a few pages. "Is there some sentimental value to its having been pre-owned, or have you simply accepted the wisdom in frugality and plucked it from your own collection?"

A laugh-shaken, "You're a fine one to talk about frugality, my friend. A custom-made necklace?"

"The Rubik's cube was custom, as well," Illya remarked, continuing to peruse the volume as if to ascertain the secret behind its having been chosen by a person with a perpetually open wallet.

"That—that seems a bit exorbitant for you." He hastened to add, "Not that I don't appreciate it—"

"Your mind can be at ease, Napoleon, for the entire expense was in the ballpark of what you might spend on fancy coffee in a morning." Suppressing a smile at the utter bewilderment on his housemate's face, he explained, "Beads and cord are quite cheap."

"You made it?"

A scoff. "Stringing beads hardly requires a fine arts degree."

"What about the cube?"

"I was allowed to create the parts using the 3-D printer at our university." After he'd promised to spend extra time as a lab assistant for the rest of the school year, of course, but Napoleon didn't need to know that part. He looked chuffed enough as it was, and if the brunet got any happier he'd never get in those extra hours of sleep before going to class.

"Anyway—" Illya held up the book. "—I believe we've gotten away from our main topic, here. Of course I enjoy Dickens—and I thank you, if I've not already done so—but the fact remains that I find it hard to believe there is not an extensive backstory to this particular gift."

Napoleon fiddled with the remnants of wrapping paper. "It, uh… it was my sister's copy."

"Ah. Do… do you still want me to have it after I—"

"Yes. She was special to me, and I think she'd like you. So it's sort of a gift from both of us."

Illya smiled dryly, "Are you quite sure about that? I can be rather a jerk to her brother."

Napoleon reached one hand to rub at the back of the self-confessed jerk's neck. "She'd like you."

He opted not to argue the point, fearing that would set him up for accidentally upsetting Napoleon's sister's surviving brother. Doing so that one time back at the Pyatigorsk office had been enough. "May I ask her name?"

"My parents had a thing for naming their children after the figureheads of failed French empires. Carlota."

"I… don't believe I saw any pictures of her at your parents' house."

"You believe right. They still find it painful so she's tucked away in family photo albums."

Illya turned the book over again in his hands and asked it, "How long?"

"Coming up on eighteen years. She's been dead longer than she was alive."

He removed Napoleon's hand from his neck and settled their entwined fingers on the couch. "You were quite young, then."

"Mm. She read this to me at Christmas a few years." Napoleon used his pinky to reach over and flip some pages. "We had to stop every couple of minutes so she could explain all the funny words and phraseology, but she was patient and we always managed to get through it in time for Christmas Eve."

"You miss her?"

"Yeah."

Illya nudged Napoleon's knee with the book. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather keep this?"

"I have a few of her other things. I know you're not big on sentimental gestures, but I'd like you to keep it."

"I will cherish it. Thank you, Napoleon."

"You're welcome." He pressed a quick kiss to the Russian's temple. "Now, while I have you more vulnerable to manipulation, will you please call it a night?"

"No." Illya rose to his feet. "I will put your generous gift somewhere safe, then return to finish my preparations."

Napoleon sighed and followed the blond back to his room, watched as the book was given a place on his bedside table, and leaned against the doorframe to half-block the exit. "What time's your class, chou?"

"10:30 start." Illya stepped over the ankle stretched across the doorway.

"Ah, excellent! I'll have plenty of time to get there."

Kuryakin froze a few steps away. He turned slowly. "I beg your pardon? Your 'security guard' duties do not extend to—"

"Oh, I'm not going as a guard. I thought I might audit your course."

"You—you have never expressed interest in computer organization."

"I developed an acute interest."

"You—no." Illya shook his head rapidly. "No. Why?"

"What, I can't make an effort to know my boyfriend better by becoming better acquainted with his field of study?"

"No—no—fine."

Napoleon blinked. "Fine?"

"You're about to propose an exchange, aren't you? You stay away from my class in exchange for my going to sleep now."

A toothy smile provided the answer.

"I could accept the condition and then simply continue to work in the privacy of my own room, you know."

"I could have stolen the USB with your work on it while your back was turned, you know."

Illya whipped around to stare at his laptop on the coffee table, realized the flashdrive was indeed missing, and turned back to the self-satisfied Solo. "You saved before ejecting it, yes?"

"Yes, it's saved. And I think I'm in better wrestling shape than you are at the moment, so it's staying with me until seven in the a.m., bub."

His hair almost shifted over one eye as he tilted his head. "Are you quite sure of that?"

"I'm sure that we'd at least have enough of a tussle that we'd wake up a few neighbors. Further, I'm sure that I'd leave it to you to explain our friendly kerfuffle to whoever got sent up here to check on us."

Illya sighed. "Can I see it, at least, to be sure you have it and I didn't simply lose it somewhere?"

"You can have a look around your work station," Napoleon suggested with a gesture to the living room seating area. "Convince yourself it's not over there. I'm not dumb enough to hold it up where you could reach out and grab it."

Another sigh.

"You wound me, chou."

"I'll shut it down." Kuryakin accordingly went over to shut down his computer and gather his textbook and notes. As he returned, Solo shifted out of the way but paused when Illya said quietly, "You can be extra certain of my not working if you join me."

"Ya-what?"

Illya hummed—a stifled laugh at Napoleon's cartoonish double take. "Only to sleep, of course. I… was a bit lonely during my overnight stays in Uncle's medical wing."

As Napoleon hesitated, Illya ducked his chin in an apparent moment of hesitation, then blinked a few times over the rim of his glasses. If the American didn't know better, he'd say the blond was batting his eyelashes at him, but he absolutely did know better since the Russian wasn't prone to that sort of flirtation.

Therefore, he must have been speaking sincerely.

And therefore, he must have actually been lonely.

And therefore, Napoleon joined him in bed.

And then he woke up alone at half past six. Sans the USB drive that had previously been stowed in his pocket. And with a housemate tapping away enthusiastically at his computer in the living room.

"How long have you been up?"

Illya snorted. "How long has it been since you fell asleep?" At Napoleon's sincerely disgruntled huff, he paused in his work to look over. "Are you angry with me?"

A sigh, then a smile. "No. Leopard can't change its spots, right? I'm not mad."

The American chuckled and shook his head as he proceeded to the kitchen.

From whence he proceeded to his eight a.m. class.

From whence he proceeded to a ten-thirty a.m. class on computer organization.

* * *

 **A/N** : Non-Gershwin song in the title is by My Chemical Romance, 'cause I felt like it.

And that's that, because I have yet to figure out how to write endings. I am planning a third story in this little series I have going, but it's still in a rather nebulous form at the moment so if it ever gets posted… might be a while.

Thanks for reading through!


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